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WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 



WITH THE TOURIST 
TIDE 



By 
ARTHUR B. COOKE 

Author of " Essays on Work and Life'' 



New York and Washington 
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
1907 






LIBRARY Of C0NCIRE3S 

Two Copies Recefved 

MAR 16 1907 

fc Copyrlerht Entry 

CLASS A XXC, Wo. 

/7/J Cf 

COPY B. / 



Copyright, 1907, by 
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 



TO 
ARTHUR CLEVELAND, VANNOY CLEVELAND, 
HARRY HARRIS, HENRY STANTON, FRANK TATUM, 
LEWIS WALKER- 
COMPANIONS OF A PLEASANT SUMMER. 



Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabtt.'' 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

Preface, ; 9 

I. By the Way, 11 

II. The Log of a Landlubber, 17 

III. Naples, 32 

IV. The Buried City, 46 

V. Rambles about Rome, 57 

VI. Zigzagging Through Italy, 75 

VII. The Island City, 93 

VIII. To the Top of the World, 113 

IX. The Land of the Rhine, 132 

X. Paris, 153 

XI. On English Soil, 178 

XII. College and Cathedral Towers, 203 

XIII. The Land of Purple Heather, 217 

XIV. The City of the Scots, 231 

XV. Scotch Lands and Letters, 247 

XVI. The English Lakes, 260 

XVII. Westward Ho ! 270 



PEEFACE 

ISTot long since a small group of students in a 
Southern college began, under tlie guidance of one 
of their teachers, to prepare for a taste of "wander- 
years.'' And when the fireside travels had been 
taken and all preparation made, in due time they 
set out with staff and scrip — which in modern tourist 
parlance means Baedeker and circular notes — to see 
for themselves something of the wide, wide world. 
Those who will may follow them through the com- 
ing pages, as they drift with the tourist tide or 
pause in the eddies of the stream. 

A. B. C. 

WoFFOBD College, 

Si»ARTANBUEG, S. C. 



CHAPTEE I 



BY THE WAY 



It was a beautiful and beneficent custom that 
maintaining among the people of the German lands 
in the long ago — a custom which their descendants 
have not forgotten — that when a youth had served 
his apprenticeship he should have his "wander- 
years"; that before he assumed the cares and re- 
sponsibilities of life he should take staff and scrip, 
and journey away with light heart and eager mind 
to explore the wonders of other lands, to drink in 
new sights, to observe new customs, to mingle with 
strange peoples, to discover for himself new worlds. 

What an epoch it must have been in the life of a 
wanderer from the dreary plains of North Germany 
when he caught first sight of the mountains of 
Switzerland serrate upon the far horizon, or looked 
upon the sunny slopes of Italy stretching beneath 
cerulean skies, or mingled with the mobile people of 
a summer land. What wealth of memory he gath- 
ered as he journeyed at leisure from land to land. 
What revelations came to him as he touched a 
strange people on the wayside or in the hostelry or 
in the hospitable home. One has only to follow the 
youthful Louis Stevenson in his "Travels with a 
Donkey in the Cevennes," or walk with Victor 
Hugo "Along the Banks of the Hhine,'' or keep 



12 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

John Ruskin company in Hs early excursions, to 
realize the possibilities of deliberate travel. 

And when the "wander-years'' were over, the 
youth returned to take his place among his people, 
bringing back memories to cheer the dull monotony 
of daily life, and inspirations to sustain him in the 
coming days of toil. 

Such is the ideal of travel, and such are its richest 
rewards. 'Tis not the curios the traveler may bring 
back that constitute the value of travel, nor the 
exact information he may gather by the way, nor 
the strange stories of distant lands with which he 
may charm away the hours. The virtue of travel 
defies measure by rule of thumb. It is like nitrogen 
at the root of the plant, whose result is seen only in 
the greater harvest of autumn. It is a new window 
in the chamber of life through which the world is 
seen in larger prospect. To Goethe the "wander- 
years'' in Italy meant a new birth; they marked a 
new era in his Hf e. 

Frequently the "wander-years" furnish the store 
from which the whole of after life draws suste- 
nance. Such was the case with Charles Darwin. 
Looking forward at the age of twenty-two to his 
anticipated voyage around the world, he said with 
prophetic enthusiasm, "My second life shall then 
commence, and it shall be a birthday for the rest of 
my life." And how rich were those Rve years of 
wandering ! 'No island of the sea was so barren but 
it had an interest for him; if nothing more, it 
yielded a few rocks and strange spiders for his col- 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 13 

lection. Wherever the ship cast anchor by any 
shore, he studied the flora and fauna of the soil, the 
natives in their ways of life, the fossils that lay 
hidden in the earth or exposed along the face of 
"scarped cliff," finding in the past and present life 
of the land, as it lay there written in large curious 
letters, a book more absorbing and full of wonders 
than the finest romance. When the "wander-years" 
were over, he returned to his native land, and dur- 
ing all the rest of his life scarcely journeyed be- 
yond the limits of a county. 

The collections he brought back constitute a most 
valuable addition to natural history. But however 
valuable, they were not the chief result of his wan- 
derings. That was the fertilizing effect which 
travel had on the mind of the traveler himself, and 
was only to be seen in the results of after years. 
Almost every one of the great scientist's works may 
be clearly traced to some suggestion out of the 
period of his travels. It was not so much that he 
had found priceless specimens, nor that he had 
returned with a larger knowledge of Chile and 
Patagonia and the Galapagos Islands, but that he 
settle down in his own country with a larger knowl- 
edge of the past and present life of the globe, with 
a deeper insight everywhere into the principles of 
that life, and with a greater power to interpret its 
manifold phases. He found in the suggestions of 
distant lands a key to the mysteries that lay thick 
about him at home. In the possession of that larger 
view, he found in the fields about the village of 



14 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

Down an inexhaustible source of interest and in- 
struction. And it was in Down, not in CMle, that 
he became the world's foremost scientist. 

It is not that one's native heath is barren that 
one needs to browse in other fields. The most com- 
monplace community is inexhaustible to him who 
has eyes to see and the power to read aright the 
stories that are hidden there. But, like Charles 
Darwin, the most of us need the shock of novelty to 
reveal the significance of things which all our lives 
we have been passing by with dull indifference. We 
travel abroad that we may learn more about home. 
It is well, therefore, for the man who would make 
the most of his life in any community to learn some- 
thing of the world elsewhere before he settles there. 

But he who would travel with profit must travel 
w^isely. An English statesman has said that ^^If you 
would bring back the wealth of the Indies you must 
carry the wealth of the Indies out." It is note- 
Avorthy that the men who have reaped largest har- 
vests from travel have been those who prepared 
themselves to profit by it. Darwin would have 
brought back nothing for himself or science if he 
had set out as a mere curio hunter. Study had 
made him ripe for the voyage around the world. 
Goethe had been preparing more or less consciously 
for his Italian journey since as a child he studied 
the pictures of Italy that hung in his father's home. 
It is said that before John Ruskin set foot upon 
Italian soil he knew more about the country than 
any native. And especially in these days of rapid 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 16 

transit is preparation essential to wise travel. Mr. 
Gladstone has aptlj said, "Once the traveler was 
bathed in Italy; now he is dashed with its spray.'' 
He who would see Europe in a single summer must 
be ready to receive and interpret impressions if he 
would not bring back from his wanderings weariness 
and confusion. 

And in the very preparation there should come a 
keen delight. Next to real travel there is nothing 
more charming than to draw one's chair beside the 
study fire of a winter evening and while the wind 
blows cold about the corner, fly away on the magic 
blanket of imagination to some distant clime. On 
such an evening one might hie himself away to the 
Island City of Italy, and with the introduction of so 
accomplished a gentleman as Mr. Howells lose one's 
self in the whirl of "Venetian Life"; or with Mr. 
Hopkinson Smith as guide surrender one's self to 
the charm of "Gondola Days," gliding with him 
through the ins and outs of the quaint canals, or 
mingling with the kaleidoscopic throng of the 
Eialto, or joining the promenade of fashion as it 
circulates about the colonnades of St. Mark's when 
the lights are on. 

And the journey might be continued down to 
Florence, the home of Dante and Giotto and Michael 
Angelo and Savonarola and a host of others whose 
deeds fill history's pages. There one might take his 
"Mornings in Florence" under the direction of 
J ohn Ruskin, while that master led the way through 
the gallerieg of art and the triumphs of architecture 



16 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 

which lend fame to the Etruscan city. Or one 
might sit with Mrs. Oliphant for teacher and learn 
of those stirring times when the "Makers of Flor- 
ence" held uncertain sway over the ancient city. 
Or again one might follow George Eliot's "Eomola" 
through the turbulent tide of humanity that surged 
back and forth in those now so quiet streets in the 
long ago. And surely one could not turn back from 
Florence with the City of Seven Hills almost in 
sight. Hare, the veteran guide, stands always ready 
to take the fireside traveler on innumerable "Walks 
in Rome." And a dash of color might be added by 
having Hall Caine act as escort through "The 
Eternal City." 

Such fireside travel every one must take who 
would bring back from real travel the richest cargo 
of culture. And such every one may take, with 
great profit to himself, whether or not the lines of 
his life ever lie across the great waters; for many 
have seen Venice who never touched the Italian 
shore, and many, alas ! have never seen the magic 
city though they have ridden in its gondolas over 
and over again. 



CHAPTEE II 

THE LOG OF A LANDLUBBER 

There are, broadly speaking, two routes from 
America to Europe. And by America one means 
the United States, for the land of the Stars and 
Stripes seems to stand for the whole continent, not 
only in the eyes of the patriotic Yankee, but even 
in the mind of the European. He classes men of 
the New World as Mexicans, Canadians, Americans. 
And perhaps he is not so far from the mark, for as 
one stands upon the shores of the Old World and 
looks toward the sunset, there is one object which 
looms dominant upon the horizon, and that is the 
land over which Old Glory waves. Canada is just a 
piece of England wandered away from home, and 
Mexico is still the land of Maximilian in the eyes of 
Europe. 

One of these routes veers north from Sandy 
Hook, passes by the Grand Banks of IN'ew Found- 
land, and follows the Gulf Stream across to the Bri- 
tish Isles — a distance of some three thousand miles. 
This is the northern route and is the great thorough- 
fare between two continents — the Broadway of the 
ocean. Eor the traveler it has all the attractions 
afforded by the wonderful phenomena of the Gulf 
Stream; and all the detractions afforded by the fogs 



18 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

and bleak weather which mark the northern course 
of this river in the ocean. The other route drops 
south after clearing the coast, and picking up the 
thirty-ninth parallel — the parallel of Washington 
City — follows it for two thousand miles to the 
Azores Islands, from where it dips gradually to the 
parallel of ISTorfolk, Va., and enters the Strait of 
Gibraltar. This route is to be preferred by the out- 
going tourist, for several reasons. It is more pleas- 
ant, and the voyage is delightfully broken by the 
Azores. Moreover, by taking this route, and land- 
ing at !Raples, the loop of Italy is avoided, and one 
can make the tour of the continent without having 
to retrace his steps at any point. 

Just here it may be worth while to institute a 
few comparisons in the latitudes of Old and 'New 
World places, for geography lessons are often defi- 
cient on this score. Gibraltar, for instance, which 
is the extreme southern point of Europe, is about 
parallel with ISTorfolk. !N"aples is exactly opposite 
ISTew York. Paris is a hundred miles farther north 
than Quebec. And London is opposite Labrador. 
Yet !Nraples is without winter, and Paris never sees 
sleighing. Perhaps some sprightly schoolboy can 
explain this apparent partiality on the part of 
Mother N'ature in the treatment of her children. 
If not, let him take a trip to Europe by the southern 
route one of these days and learn the secret. 

In mid-ocean it is often uncomfortable on deck 
without a wrap, so sharp is the breeze. But when 
you have slipped through between the Pillars of 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 19 

Hercules and are sailing under Sardinia, summer 
clothing becomes almost a burden in the hot mon- 
soon from Sahara. If I^ew York had such a foot 
stove as ^N'aples has in the great desert, and Quebec 
had such a radiator as London has in the Gulf 
Stream, there would be small chance of a coal 
famine in the American cities. Many Italian immi- 
grants follow the example of the millionaire, spend- 
ing their summers in America and their winters in 
Italy. They doubtless find the steerage passage on 
an ocean liner cheaper than a winter coal bill in 
'New York. 

One may find a sea voyage very monotonous, or 
wonderfully varied, according to one's humor; just 
as one finds the stream of humanity on the streets 
of a great city interesting or the reverse, according 
to one's own attitude. The stretch of the sea as you 
look at it hour by hour over the rail has more or less 
sameness, especially when the sky overhead is an 
unbroken blue or a blanket of cloud day after day. 
But for the voyager who can throw off the lethargy 
of a deck chair in mid-ocean, the sea presents an 
almost kaleidoscopic change. All day the stormy 
petrels, Mother Carey's chickens, keep you a kind 
of errant company, flitting along your wake to pick 
up a chance morsel of food. There is something 
pathetic about these little tramps of the ocean. 
Brooded upon lonely strands, they set out on the 
ocean air never to return. They are homeless. 
They sleep upon the evanescent wave, now here, 
now there, without a local habitation. How like 



20 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

some wayward children of men, who drift on the sea 
of life, trailing in the wake of every ship that 
passes, if perchance they may snatch a castaway 
crumb; but evermore left to drift again on the 
waves as the ship passes on to its haven. 

If you are willing to breast the spray of the 
prow, you may catch sight now and then of the 
winged nautilus, looking much like a chimney swal- 
low, as he rises before the ship and dashes away to 
hide in the friendly bosom of a billow — a curious 
creature, this flying squirrel of the ocean. And 
while you watch you may see a school of porpoises 
churning the surface of the sea to foam, leaping 
above the waters like dogs in pursuit of their quarry. 
And at night the wake of the sliip becomes a Milky 
Way, where a myriad stars of phosphorus blend 
their glow. 

The things that are not seen on the waters are as 
significant as those that are seen. There is a won- 
derful harmony in JSTature's realm. She groups the 
great things together. To the great creatures she 
gives a habitation in her great expanses. The roar 
of the lion echoes over the desert. The stately soar- 
ing of the condor is in keeping with the peaks of 
Chimborazo. The grace and noise of the eagle's 
flight as he slides against the vault of summer sky 
is in perfect harmony with the clouds that serve 
him for canopy. For a like reason the rapid wing- 
beat of the lesser bird is in keeping with the wind- 
shaken tree-tops into which he darts. Now in that 
immensity where boundless sea is blended with 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 21 

boundless sky there are no soarers; as if nature felt 
that none of her children was great enough for that 
frame. But down on the surface of the water 
skims the stormy petrel, rising and falling with the 
billow; and out of the wave crest dashes the 
nautilus, like a part of the far-flung spray. 

The personnel of a ship's company is in itself of 
inexhaustible interest; not that personnel of ice- 
bergs in the presence of which one too frequently 
shivers on the promenade deck of a fast liner, but 
that personnel of warm-hearted human beings 
whose souls are larger than their purses, and who 
are therefore more frequently found in the second 
cabin — second class on the ship's passenger list, but 
first class in the fine qualities that make manhood 
and womanhood. Here is a man who twenty years 
ago gave up the plans of a university graduate, and 
sought refuge from "the white peril" in the Lone 
Star State. With true patriotism he has lent his 
energies for those twenty years to the building up 
of that great new State. Now he is going abroad 
for the summer to recuperate body and spirit — a 
cheerful, brave-hearted, whole-souled fellow, just 
as a man will be who has looked death full in the 
face these twenty years without flinching. And by 
his side are a noble wife and two daughters enter- 
ing nascent maidenhood. It is refreshing to watch 
their enthusiasm over everything along the way; 
the callous globe-trotter might well envy the fresh- 
ness of their spirits. Here are teachers who, in- 
stead of investing their savings in corner lots or 



22 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

cotton futures, have cliosen to invest them in en- 
largement of their lives and in greater fitness for 
the helping of others. Here are young men just 
out of college, going abroad to sow one more season 
of seed for the coming harvest of culture. Here are 
artists and musicians of promise willing to spend 
time and means in acquiring those fine qualties of 
touch and taste which cost so much^ but which are 
the essence of art. Here is a man who has devoted 
his life to the buying and selling of rare stamps — a 
veritable cyclopaedia when it comes to his business. 
Think of a man crossing the seas to sell a handful 
of stamps. But his heart and his money are in it, 
and that combination will carry one to the ends of 
the earth. 

Then there are adopted children of the strong 
'New World going back now to pay a filial visit to 
the old mother — Germans, French, Italians, Span- 
iards, Greeks. What a wonderful cosmopolitan 
country that land of Columbia is, lying there under 
the western skies, nursing at her ample breast the 
children of all nations, and bringing them up into a 
maturity of unfaltering fidelity to their foster 
mother. We need not wonder at the army of immi- 
grants who yearly knock for entrance at her doors. 
To the poor ISTeapolitan it is more than a land of 
promise, it is a kind of halo-circled paradise whose 
streets are made of gold, and beside whose limpid 
rivers grow wide-spreading trees of life. We who 
have known no other life than that in a land of lib- 
erty have little idea of the charm which our coun- 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 23 

try has for the wistful multitudes of the Old World. 
In fact, the American himself rarely appreciates 
his country so much as when he sees it from a for- 
eign shore. 

"Land ahead !'' For days we had been measur- 
ing endless miles of summer sea sloping toward a 
fugitive horizon, and our eyes were eager for sight 
of the billows that are never capped with foam. 
With one accord we rushed to the rail, and saw far 
ahead on the misty horizon a dark line which we 
made out to be land. It was Flores, the most west- 
erly member of the Azores — that scattered group of 
islands which straggle out from the Old World like 
bold waders into the gulf of water. It was off the 
coast of this island in the stirring days of !N"ew 
World conquest that Sir Richard Grenville in his 
ship Revenge stood out for a whole long day and 
night against the combined attack of the Spanish 
fleet, and thereby became one of England's im- 
mortal sailors. 

It might not be out of place to jot down in the 
log of a landlubber a few observations on that group 
of islands, the Azores, which lie upon the southern 
way, for they deserve more attenton than is com- 
monly given them in geographies. They are at a 
mean distance of eight hundred miles from Portugal 
and nineteen hundred from IN^ewfoundland. They 
represent seven hundred square miles; and three 
decades ago counted some three hundred thousand 
souls. They are a Portuguese colony — have been 



24 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

since their discovery by Prince Henry the JSTavi- 
gator in 1433. 

But tliey must have been known before that 
time — known and lost to sight again in those days 
of uncharted oceans when Leif the Lucky discov- 
ered Vinland, and his countrymen let it lapse from 
memory. Indeed, there is a suggestion of these 
islands in Greek mythology. Eor who does not 
know the beautiful story of the Isles of the Hes- 
perides, where the daughters of Hesperus^ the even- 
ing star, kept Juno's golden apples; and of how 
Hercules, coveting the apples, agreed to take the 
burden of the world from the shoulders of Atlas if 
the latter would fetch him the prize. One can 
easily imagine that some mariner from ancient 
Hellas, sailing out where the Pillars of Hercules 
stand guard at the gates of the west, and the Moun- 
tains of Atlas cast their shadow across the sands, 
was caught by adverse winds and driven out over 
the ocean rim till he came within sight of these un- 
known isles lying under the sunset glow; and that, 
winning his way back to the inland sea and home, 
he brought vague news of lands that lay in the vast 
waters where Hesperus goes down to her bath. At' 
any rate, if Hercules should come to these islands 
to-day, he would find golden apples there in abun- 
dance, for the finest oranges of the market are 
grown there. 

Though the islands are of volcanic origin, the 
ancient cones and lava beds being distinctly trace- 
able, they are wonderfully fertile. Fayal and San 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 25 

Jorge, two of the largest members of tlie group, are 
in the highest state of cultivation. They are dotted 
with orange and lemon groves, with fields of pine- 
apples, and with vineyards clambering up the steep 
ascents. Their climate is semi-tropical. They are 
hilly, sometimes mountainous. As our ship skirted 
the shores at close range during the afternoon of a 
June day, they presented a panorama of surpassing 
beauty. The hills were robed in many colors, each 
field clearly marked by the tint of the crop it bore. 
The volcanoes that once spread their sulphurous 
fumes over the islands have long since fallen asleep, 
and the hardy children of men are tilling their 
sides and gathering hay from the very meadows 
that cover the craters. The hillsides are dotted with 
shimmering haciendas half hidden in the trees, and 
red windmills wave their skeleton arms from the 
hilltops. A little village stands by the water's edge 
to wave a passing salute, while her more retiring 
sisters sit modestly among the hills. Here and there 
deep ravines furrow the slopes, and streams run 
unseen beneath the foliage till with airy leap they 
clear the precipice and fall headlong into the sea. 
On one cliff three of these falls are visible, hang- 
ing from the precipice like silver ribbons. 

As we stood at the taffrail, and watched the day 
go out in the west, the view took on a marvel- 
ous beauty. The sea lay like a crinkled mirror 
under the cloud-flecked sky. The slant rays of the 
declining sun touched land and water into mellow 
tints. On the one side lay San Jorge, its shore ris- 



26 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

ing now half a thousand feet, and now stooping to 
touch the waves. Beyond cHff and shore the 
verdant fields sloped to meet the sky. In the dis- 
tance Pico loomed, forest-robed and storm-capped, 
seven thousand feet into the clouds. While we 
waited, the sun sank behind a shoulder of the hills. 
Then for one brief moment the landscape turned to 
orange and gold, and we watched the glory fade, till 
darkness settled over the ocean, and the stars came 
out to keep their vigil. 

Far as these islands are now from the world's 
highway, their history has not been without events. 
They are upon the way from Gibraltar to America, 
and in the days of world discovery Gibraltar was 
the western gate of the world. Through it issued 
the first bold adventurers. So it came about that 
Columbus touched at these islands, on his homeward 
voyage — put in here to repair some damage done to 
his caravels on the uncharted sea. Here, too, Mar- 
tin Behaim settled a colony — he who made the first 
globe of the earth, which notable work may be seen 
to this day in the old navigator's house at Nurem- 
berg in Bavaria, if you have a mind to travel so far. 
But in these latter days when England has suc- 
ceeded to the heritage of Spain, the tide of com- 
merce and travel has turned northward, and the 
Azores stand upon a by-path of the ocean. 

Louis Stevenson once invited a friend to visit 
him in Samoa, and for direction told him to come to 
San Francisco, take a steamer, and turn to the left 
at the next corner. So much has space shrunk 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 27 

under the pressure of steam. The next station be- 
yond the Azores is Gibraltar, some thousand miles 
to the east. Three days of pleasant sailing brought 
us to the Old World. Our first sight of it was a 
hazy view of the Spanish mainland. ISTot long 
afterward we caught sight of Africa lying to the 
south. Then for the rest of the day we had the 
peculiar privilege of looking upon two continents 
at once. Surely that is all a traveler can ask for 
one afternoon, if he is in a mood to let his memory 
play in the past of the one and his imagination in 
the future of the other. 

In due time we steamed in through the famous 
Strait, flying the English flag from the masthead in 
recognition of the power that rules the Mediter- 
ranean. The sun was setting in the western waters 
as we entered the harbor, and when he should rise 
on the morrow he was to find us well on our way 
toward Sardinia. It was a case of ^^twenty minutes 
for Gibraltar," but with true American spirit we 
determined to storm the fortress. The harbor was 
alive with craft of every kind. There were mer- 
chantmen from the ends of the earth, great colliers 
with grimy hulks, sailing smacks with their orange- 
tinted canvas, trim steam launches darting in and 
out among the larger craft, and rowboats manned 
by vociferous venders. This is the rendezvous of 
the British Mediterranean fleet, and behind the 
huge stone mole that runs out into the harbor we 
could see the low-lying men-of-war and their com- 



28 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 

panion ships at rest or sluggishly sMfting position, 
like giant aquatic armadillos. 

"No sooner was our ship at anchor than fruit and 
souvenir venders thronged about and clambered up 
the sides to offer their wares — the peddlers and beg- 
gars of these southern countries are indefatigable. 
"We were pleasantly surprised to find the venders 
offering fresh strawberries — the season had been 
over a month when we left home. The berries were 
large and luscious, and sold at two baskets a 
shilling — if you wouldn't give more. Golden apri- 
cots half the size of an apple were to be had for a 
few pence a dozen, and tempting purple plums at a 
shilling for as many as a party could eat. The 
hawkers had little trouble in disposing of their 
stock to the seven hundred passengers who had 
been nine days on the sea. We were genuinely 
fruit hungry. What a time those old tars must 
have had who shipped for a three years' cruise. No 
wonder they suffered from scurvy. Eresh fruit has 
been essential to the health of man ever since Adam 
and Eve formed the habit. 

Mark Twain's description of Gibraltar is charac- 
teristic — both of the man and the place. He said 
it reminded him of ^^a ^gob' of mud on the end of a 
shingle." Nevertheless, the rock of Gibraltar is 
most imposing. The famous ^^rock" so often seen 
in pictures is not, however, the main fortress, but 
is that portion which overlooks the harbor of the 
town and faces inland, the harbor being rather in 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 29 

the rear of the rock. The part which guards the 
entrance to the Inland Sea is two miles away. 

The streets of the town present a cosmopolitan 
appearance. Despite the fact that the Moor was 
driven out of Europe politically with the capture of 
Granada in 1492, he is largely in evidence at 
Gibraltar yet — and in his original garb of turban 
and robe and naked shanks, at that. He is one thing 
at Gibraltar that has not been Anglicized, though 
he speaks English per force of business, and does 
not hesitate to take an American dollar. The Moor 
is your true cosmopolitan — all things to all men, if 
perchance he may make a piastre. The English 
soldier is also in evidence, in his khaki. In fact, it 
looks as if every second person on the streets were 
a soldier. 'Nor are fair women wanting. It was a 
strange sight to us, this throng of Moors and 
soldiers, and women dressed in the latest style, all 
pouring along the narrow street together, pedestrian 
and carriage taking chances in the middle of the 
way. The Gibraltar hack is a curiosity. It is a 
cross between a horse car and a summer trolley. If 
that hybrid is inconceivable to the reader, he must 
charge it to the Gibraltar hack. 

We "did'' the town and got back to our ship in 
good time. How much American money that 
crowd left on shore, how many cheap souvenirs and 
spurious coins they brought with them, it would be 
hard to tell. The writer found three nationalities 
represented in his purse the next day. There is 
one advantage in the tipping custom of the Old 



30 "WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

World. It gives you a chance to get rid of spur- 
ious coins, for the servant never examines the gift 
in the presence of the donor; and there is usually 
no injustice in thus disposing of the metal — the 
would-be service is generally as spurious as the coin 
you give. The clown reasoned that when he got 
a bad dollar and gave it to another, it was a case 
in which two wrongs made a right — at least it made 
him right. One is fain to accept the clown's ethics 
when traveling on the continent. 

We left Gibraltar at midnight, and when we 
turned in to our berths the lights of the citadel 
were twinkling against the sky far behind us, and 
before us lay three days of sea — and Naples. 

It is good to get away from one's country now 
and then, and consider it as a unit. Sectional lines 
grow dim with distance. Even the Mason and 
Dixon line fades when seen from foreign shores. 
When we meet abroad, it is not as sons of the 
several States, but as citizens of a single coimtry. 
A fair amount of travel cultivates patriotism. It 
also cultivates respect for other peoples. Acquaint- 
anceship is a gl^eat educator. The Crusader thought 
there was no civilization but his, until he met the 
Mussulman in the latter's own country. 

When one touches Europe, the limits of history 
move back from 1492. It is one thing to read his- 
tory in books that were turned out yesterday. It is 
another thing to read it in the very vestiges of the 
centuries as one finds them gathered in museums or 
scattered abroad upon the face of these millennial 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 31 

lands. It is one thing to read "The Gallic Wars." 
It is another to walk in the crumbling ruins of 
Caesar's palace. Travel is greatly worth while if 
one can thereby come to realize the past out of which 
we have come and its relation to the present in which 
we live. 



CHAPTER III 

NAPLES 

It was a perfect day in latest June when onr sMp 
sailed into the world's most beautiful harbor. We 
had been three days out from Gibraltar, with 
scarcely a sail to break the monotony of our horizon 
and no vestige of sea life to divert our attention. 
Above the ship arched the cloudless blue of a south- 
ern sky, and around us stretched an ocean of liquid 
lapis lazuli. But for the hot breath of the desert 
and the churning propellers we might have seemed 
to be hanging between the sky and its reflection, 

"As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean." 

How forsaken the great sea seemed, as we plowed 
league after league of its ancient surface, ourselves 
the sole occupants of this quondam world's arena. 
Where are the merchantmen whose sails once 
whitened the blue waters? Where are the galleys 
whose banked oars made the waters foam? For 
the warships of Hellas and the galleys of Rome used 
to scour these waters, and the merchant fleets of 
Venice and Pisa and Genoa once plied upon the now 
forsaken paths. Hither came the early Greeks to 
extend their colonies, — these first expansionists, — 
some twenty-five hundred years ago, planting the 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 33 

seed of civilization in Sardinia, and afterward 
upon the mainland where Marseilles now stands. 
The fleets of Marius and Hannibal once sailed upon 
these waters, as did those of Caesar and Pompey. 
Hither came our crude forefathers out of !N'orseland 
a thousand years later, those bold adventurers push- 
ing the prows of their Viking ships into every nook 
of European coast. Here Columbus first shipped 
as cabin boy from Genoa, little suspecting that one 
day he should open the western gates, and the teem- 
ing life which for centuries had been confined to 
the inland sea, should ebb out through the Strait of 
Gibraltar forever to find in a new world of lands 
and waters a larger home. 

We sailed under Sardinia, lying like a gray cloud 
along the north, and held our course straight 
toward the Italian shore. About noon of the third 
day there was a stir on deck, for word had passed 
that we should soon sight land. The soft haze of a 
summer day half obscured the distant view, but we 
peered steadfastly ahead, till at last out of the haze 
gradually dawned the cone of Vesuvius like a moun- 
tain in the clouds, waving from his summit a long 
pennant of smoke. For three hours we watched 
through the lessening distance "the old man with 
his pipe," as he sent up pufi after puff against the 
sky. Then land gradually appeared on either side 
across the shimmering water, as we steered in where 
the rugged isle of Ischia and the rock of Capri stand 
guard at the entrance of the bay. To our right, 
3 



34 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

Vesuvius, the shore at his feet fringed white with 
houses where Herculaneum lies buried. In front of 
us J^aples stretched along the beach and clambered 
up the steep ascent of the background, white as 
marble in the sun. 

'No sooner was the ship at anchor than we were 
treated to a taste of ^N'eapolitan life. Small boats 
swarmed about the great liner like ants about an 
apple. Some were laden with fruits — oranges and 
lemons, peaches and apricots, plums and pomegran- 
ates, and great black figs as large as the fist. The 
venders found ready sale for their cargo in stateroom 
and steerage. One of the boats was occupied by 
three Italian girls of respectable appearance. At 
first we thought they had come out to welcome 
friends among our ship's company, but when close 
up under the ship's bows they began to sing, and the 
serenade finished, held an umbrella inverted to catch 
any soldos that might be tossed from the deck. But 
the men were not to be outdone by the maidens. 
Several leaped from their boats into the water and 
offered to dive for a coin. Immediately there was a 
small shower of copper from the merry company, 
and the divers were equal to their offer, bringing 
up the coins now in their fingers and now between 
their toes. 

At last the red tape of the quarantine had all 
been measured out in accordance with the require- 
ments that be, and we went ashore. A legion of 
hotel porters met us before we were off the lighter, 
and almost fought each other in their mad efforts 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 35 

to secure our patronage. If they had been Ameri- 
cans, you might have expected bloodshed; but be- 
ing Italians, you knew nobody was in danger. Hav- 
ing run the gauntlet of the porters and customs 
officers, we had to face the beggars. Some of them 
are mendicants pure and simple, others live under 
the guise of peddlers; but in either case they are 
equally persistent. It was with difficulty we could 
keep the venders from filling our pockets with 
matches, flowers, soap, and trinkets of every sort. 
Indeed, we had once or twice to divest ourselves of 
such impedimenta. A modest young man of our 
party was greatly embarrassed by having a beaming 
Italian maid put a nosegay in his buttonhole on 
such short acquaintance. The ITeapolitan beggar 
and his concomitant, the Neapolitan flea, are equally 
persistent and aggravating. As we drove to our 
hotel an old man ran beside the wheel for half a 
block begging alms, and when we refused, turned 
away muttering what we took to be a curse. As 
we paused on the street an old woman came and 
held out her hand. When we alighted at the hotel 
a horribly maimed man led by a woman barred our 
way. Another time three beggars besieged us in 
as many blocks, and on still another occasion we had 
to leave the street because of their annoyance. The 
maimed and deformed beggars are legion in south- 
ern Italy. It is strange the government allows 
these parasites to prey upon the public, but it seems 
rather to encourage them. We were told the privi- 



36 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

lege of begging is farmed out, and under the con- 
trol of regularly organized companies. 

Your room at Naples should be chosen with an eye 
to the view. If your window looks out on the bay, 
you will have before you morning and evening one 
of the loveliest views in all the world — the craft- 
crowded harbor in the foreground, Vesuvius to the 
left, the stone pines of Posilippo to the right; 
across the waters, Capri. And stretched round all, 
the horns of the crescent shore sloping to meet the 
sea. 

The street scenes are no less interesting to the 
stranger than the views are beautiful. The Italian 
dairyman is in evidence everywhere, morning and 
evening, driving his flock of goats or leading his 
cows. You get your milk fresh from the cow, and 
see it milked while you wait. If the customer lives 
in the fourth story he lets down his bucket by a 
cord, and when the order has been filled draws it 
up again. The milk is presumably fresh, but there's 
no telling how much chalk water a N^eapolitan cow 
may yield. Her latest offspring always accom- 
panies her as evidence that the mother is fresh and 
the milk mild. But some of these offspring are of 
questionable age; and no doubt the adoption of 
children is not entirely unknown in the dairies of 
ISTaples. The goats lie about contentedly on the 
sidewalks when not being driven, and are as lazy as 
the lazzaroni. When on duty they do not hesitate 
to mount the most precipitous flight of stairs to 
serve an attic customer, their long inheritance from 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 37 

agile mountain ancestry standing them in good 
stead. 

The horses of Naples are for the most part 
scarcely larger than ponies, and the donkeys a size 
larger than the St. Bernard dog^ — mere pygmies 
beside the Percherons of 'New York and London. 
Yet they draw loads we would hesitate to put upon 
our animals. The cart is the usual vehicle, and 
when the load is on, it looks as if the little beast 
might be caught up bodily any moment by the tilt- 
ing of the cart and thrown backward over his bur- 
den. There is a society for the prevention of 
cruelty here, but the Italian estimate of cruelty 
must be different from the American, for one of 
the uniformed representatives of this order stood 
complaisantly on the street while two ponies nearby 
were left in the hot sun for half an hour under the 
strain of a heavy load on the hillside. Another time 
a hackman who offered his services had to ply the 
lash while his fellow pushed the wheel, in order to 
get the miserable steed in motion. The American 
liveryman would be amused at the way the Neapoli- 
tan hackman feeds his horse. About noon he 
secures a few handfuls of green hay, and feeds it to 
the starving beast from his hand a few straws at a 
time. Another w^ay is to tie a bundle of hay to the 
shaft and let the animal eat as he goes, but this is 
practised chiefly among draymen. The teamster's 
horse is often driven without bit, being controlled 
by a metal piece which takes the place of nose strap 
on the bridle. 



38 WITH THE TOHEIST TIDE 

Cabs are reasonable, even if tlie turnout is not 
first class. A dollar will hire a hack half the morn- 
ing. But you must always make your agreement 
beforehand, for the Neapolitan gets all he can, and 
the policeman acts on the maxim that blood is 
thicker than water. Whatever you give must be 
supplemented by pourboire. But the currency is 
such that the tip need not be large. A two-cent 
piece is nearly as heavy as our half dollar. When 
you are in a hurry to catch the train, give a handful 
and go on. Half of it will likely be spurious, but 
it will not get out of circulation for all that. The 
amount of counterfeit and worthless coins in Italy 
is beyond computation — a great multitude of bas- 
tards whose paternity is not too closely questioned. 
One day the writer found among his coins a lead 
two-lire piece (forty cents). Calling a scavenger, 
he handed it to him. The play of expression on the 
wizen face was significant, as it lighted up, then fell 
at the leaden touch, then lighted up again. 

However archaic Naples may be in many phases 
of life, she is not altogether behind the times. She 
has not escaped the electric trolley. It is strange 
that this American invention is known all over 
Europe by a name which, so far as the writer knows, 
is never applied to it in the land of its birth. The 
Neapolitan speaks glibly of the ^^tramway," and 
signs along the streets inform the public that the 
"tramway'' stops at the places indicated. The 
tramway is no omnibus. Each car has so many seats 
inside and so many standing places on the platform. 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 39 

When these are occupied the conductor hangs up a 
small sign in front marked ^^completo." You need 
not hail a car thus marked. It is rather hard for 
the man who is not on, but is certainly easier for 
one who is — and after all, this is a world of com- 
promises. The fares are very reasonable, varying 
from two to five cents, according to the distance 
traveled. There is a first and a second class seat, 
the difference being the luxury of a cushion^ for 
which you pay an extra cent — and that cent is 
enough to break down for the moment all caste. 

For the visitor the city itself and the life on its 
streets constitute the chief interest. There are few 
monuments of antiquity such as Rome affords, nor 
are there such treasures of art as adorn Florence 
and Venice. The National Museum is, indeed, a 
famous collection, but a large part of its treasures 
come from Herculaneum and Pompeii, and will be 
noted in the following chapter. There are besides 
these the Farnese Hercules and the Farnese Bull, 
with which masterpieces of art every reading 
American must be acquainted. They are both of 
marble. The toe of the god is as large as a man's 
fist, and the figure is in perfect proportion. One 
gets some conception of the luxuriousness of later 
Roman life when it is remembered that these mas- 
terpieces adorned the public baths of Caracalla in 
Rome. They were unearthed some hundred years 
ago, and set as central figures in the ITational 
Museum. Here are to be seen too the lovely 
'^Crouching Venus'' and the "Venus Calypygus," 



40 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

tlie latter found in the ruins of ISTero's Golden 
House. 

When you have feasted your eyes upon these and 
all the other treasures that are gathered here under 
one roof for your delectation, you will come out — for 
it will be well past noonday — and stroll through the 
tide of JSTeapolitan life till you come to the Galleria 
Principe di N^apoli. Here you may turn in and 
take your seat at one of the many tables that cover 
the marble floor, while the eddies of the street play 
about you, and the arch of transparent roof bends 
gracefully a hundred feet above your head. For 
two lire and a half you will be served with a dainty 
meal after the most approved culinary art, and for 
another lire a flask of fine red wine without which 
a lunch in Italy is not complete, i^ative fruits in 
abundance form part of the repast — all laid on 
spotless linen, and served by immaculate waiters in 
full dress. And while you eat at leisure you may 
purchase matches or cameos or corals or souvenirs 
of countless kind from peripatetic venders who 
penetrate even here. 'Nov will you escape that 
other ubiquitous personage, the vender of illustrated 
cards. You have had to fight past him at every 
church and gallery door and on every corner. If 
you climbed out of breath to some eminence to get 
a lauded view, he was there to insist that you could 
see it as well on his cards. His one rule of trade is 
to get all he can, and the purchaser's may well be 
the same. But for all the intrusions, you will have 
a wonderful chance to study Italian life while you 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 41 

Knger here over the fruit and the wine. And per- 
haps you will get in this hour of rest and refresh- 
ment more than was included in the bill of fare. 

Luncheon over, you cannot do better than devote 
the afternoon to San Martino — on foot if you are 
a hearty climber, by tramway or cab if you are not 
a disciple of the strenuous life. Taking the Strada 
Salvator Rosa in front of the Museum, you wind 
in and out through the serpentine ways that crawl 
at haphazard up the steep ascent. You mingle with 
the populace that overflows here in all the abandon- 
ment of an indolent people at home. You pause to 
purchase a handful of figs from a woman whose at- 
tention is divided between her stock and the dirt- 
begrimed baby on her knee. An old woman on the 
corner is offering roasted chestnuts for sale, while a 
man near by earns a precarious living as sidewalk 
cobbler. Your curiosity is aroused by a huckster 
with a little brass barrel suspended from his 
shoulder. He is your perambulating cold drink 
fountain, and sells you for a soldo a glass of water 
^'spiked'' with some anonymous germ-killer. So you 
loiter through the streets at your ease — always do 
your sight-seeing at your ease — till unconsciously 
you have compassed the greater part of the other- 
wise tedious climb. You are under the walls of the 
old monastery of the Dominicans, San Martino — 
long since deserted by that brotherhood, and left 
here to be worn by the elements and looked at by 
the curious eye like a shell by the seashore. The 
chambers and corridors of the old monastery are 



42 WITH THE TOIJEIST TIDE 

hung with paintings of long-forgotten artists, which 
you look at in passing and in turn forget. But do 
not forget to hunt out the little room justly 
called the Belvedere, from which you will get 
altogether the most beautiful view of E'aples. 
Vine-clad terraces slope down to where the white 
city bends like a crescent about the bay eight hun- 
dred feet below; and in the background Vesuvius, 
and the steep cliffs of Sorrento shimmering in the 
sunset, and Capri beyond the blue waters. 

One afternoon when the heat of the day was well 
passed, we strolled down to the Riviera di Chiaia, 
and boarded the trolley that runs to Posilippo. ISTo 
visitor to ^^sTaples in the summer season should miss 
this excursion. As the car climbed leisurely up the 
long gradient we had ample opportunity for sight- 
seeing. On one side the bay dropped steadily be- 
neath us, its matchless panorama stretching away 
to the horizon. On the other an unbroken wall of 
houses stood against the hill, teeming with life. 
These houses are rather caves with ornate fronts, 
for they butt against the living rock, their only light 
being such as struggles through the windows of the 
front. But the occupants seem to thrive in such at- 
mosphere. One door may open into a dwelling and 
the next into the stall of cow or horse. The glare of 
a smithy will light up a cave mth lurid glow, till one 
could almost imagine he had come upon the fabled 
forge of Vulcan. Through the next entrance will 
be dimly seen the outlines of unnumbered casks, the 
long-garnered vintage of the sunny hills. So 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 43 

Bacchus and Vulcan consort^ as they have done 
these many centuries on the slopes of Vesuvius. As 
we passed, an urchin was milking a cupful from the 
udder of a goat leaning against the wall. A slat- 
ternly woman railed at a group of slatternly chil- 
dren. And a gens-d'armes strutted officiously by on 
his beat. And as if by contrast, smart equipages of 
the aristocracy with their lolling occupants rolled 
indifferently along the street, going for an airing on 
the heights of Posilippo. Finally we were at the 
end of the line. Beneath us the slopes of the rocky 
promontory were verdant with trellised and bowered 
vine, under the foliage of which could be seen clus- 
ters of grapes. Here and there white villas dotted 
the slope, half hidden in the trees. Eigs, plums, 
and cherries were growing in luxuriance, and gar- 
dens of semi-tropical plants adorned the terraces of 
this natural conservatory. When we reached the 
summit, the landscape broadened. On one side was 
the bay of ISTaples; on the other, the bay of Baia. 
Before us in the nearer distance was the island of 
Msida, its beauty desecrated by a convict prison and 
a Lazaretto. Beyond it Procida and Ischia were 
bathed in the soft glow of sunset. Hereabouts are 
'many shrines of classic story. It was here that 
Aeneas lost his trumpeter overboard, and here he 
found the grotto of the Cumean Sibyl. On the 
slope of Posilippo is the reputed tomb of Virgil. 
And Baia was the Saratoga of Home in the days of 
Nero. 

But no one has seen Naples who has confined his 



44 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

wanderings to tlie highways of the city. Alexander 
Dumas characterized Naples as "a city consisting of 
some five hundred streets of which only three are 
ever trodden by the visitor/^ You want to see some 
of the other ^ve hundred before you bid farewell to 
this most oriental of eastern cities, — some of those 
deep, narrow ways — ^mere cracks in the wall, as it 
were — which run hither and thither under stories 
of reeking windows. And you do not have to go 
slumming to see them either. ITaples has no dis- 
tinctly slum district. Turn off from a principal 
street at almost any corner, and you are with the 
submerged ten thousand. So closely do poverty and 
vice cHng to the skirts of respectability in this 
ItaKan city. 

It was through such a crack in the wall we often 
passed by night and by day as we took short cut 
from the Villa Nazionale to our pension on Via 
Amadeo. It was just broad enough for the easy 
come and go of pedestrians and too steep for wheels. 
Here again we came upon the ISTeapolitan at home. 
Men, women, and children sat before the doors in 
airiest garments — the children often in all the inno- 
cence of Eden. The narrow ribbon of sky visible 
between the tiled roofs was obscured by the out-" 
hangings of numerous domestic laundries. A foun- 
tain of clear water filled an ample basin, from which 
the denizens dipped at will. In a niche of the wall 
near by was a faded image of the Virgin with a 
taper burning before it — but where was the vestal in 
that sordid street who kept the sacred fire ? Further 



WITH THE TOITEIST TIDE 45 

up the slope was a little cliiircli where a well-kept 
priest heard the confessions of the parish, and (as 
he passed down through his flock) held his hand per- 
functorily to be kissed. 

But with all its narrow streets and archaic ways 
and sordidness, there is a charm about the city that 
draws the visitor, and makes him turn back for a 
last lingering look. It is a city where one would 
not care to dwell, but to which one would fain re- 
turn ever and anon for a season. 



CHAPTER ly 



THE BUKIED CITY 



For all the cities that in ages past have been 
folded into the bosom of the earth, there is to the 
world of to-day only one buried city — Pompeii. 
Mneteen centuries ago it was a flourishing town of 
some twenty thousand inhabitants, situated upon the 
Mediterranean coast, eclipsing its neighbor E'eapolis 
both in commerce and wealth. It was then seven 
centuries old, and its life was a mixture of the 
Greek and Eoman. It had won by its situation re- 
nown as a pleasure resort, and many wealthy Ro- 
mans were wont to come hither when the stress of 
business or the strain of festivity became too great 
in the Eternal City — a sort of Newport for the 
Rome of the Caesars. 

Behind the city and away from the shore rose a 
mountain, wooded to the top and used as a kind of 
suburban park by the Pompeians. This mountain 
was known as La Somma. The inhabitants of the 
city looked upon it with as little fear as the inhabi- 
tants of St. Pierre looked upon the wooded slopes 
and lake-crowned summit of Pelee. E'ot within the 
memory of man had the mountain given the slight- 
est sign of life. To be sure, certain wise men of 
that day had said that it was the tomb of a long dead 
volcano. But the Pompeians were quite too much 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 47 

taken up with tlieir own business and pleasures to 
concern themselves with the tombs of volcanoes or 
the possibility of Vulcan's resurrection. Like the 
people of St, Pierre, they went serenely about their 
work, and on occasion ran up for a day to the sum- 
mit of the ancient hill for recreation. 

But in 63 A. D. the city with its neighbors was 
almost destroyed by an earthquake, which threw 
down the houses and wrecked the temples. The 
people, however, were not to be frightened from the 
city of their fathers by even so frightful a portent 
as that. Humanity is much the same in all ages. 
Galveston is visited by a wave that drowns thou- 
sands of its inhabitants and ruins millions of prop- 
erty. But scarcely are the dead buried when the 
survivors set about to repair their losses on the same 
spot. San Francisco is laid waste, only to be builded 
again by its people. So, after this terrible visita- 
tion, the fathers of Pompeii issued a decree that the 
city should be restored in greater magnificence than 
before. This work of restoration was well-nigh 
completed, when one August day in 79 A. D., with 
scarce a word of warning, the whole side of La 
Somma blew out with great violence, and the cone 
which is now known as Vesuvius was thrown up. 

In this, the birth of the famous volcano, there 
seems to have been little discharge of lava. Rivers 
of boiling mud were thrown out, and these descend- 
ing at great speed to the sea, overwhelmed the town 
of Herculaneum. The fate of Pompeii, though no 
Jess tragic, was different. That town was situated 



48 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

across a shallow basin some eight miles from the 
volcano, and could not have been reached by a mud 
or lava flow. It was nevertheless doomed. The 
new-born volcano, leaping full grown from the 
bosom of La Somma, seemed to exult in its terrible 
power. A huge mushroom of smoke, laden with 
ash and pumice-stone, was sent to a great height. 
This was caught by the wind and bent over Pompeii 
till day became night on the streets of the fated 
city. For three days this pall shook down its ash 
and stones, and when the wind shifted^ Pompeii was 
buried. 

But the destruction of the population was not so 
complete as at St. Pierre, for whereas there were 
twenty thousand inhabitants, it is estimated that not 
more than two thousand lost their lives. Most of 
the people fled at the first outbreak, and it is prob- 
able that those who lost their lives were chiefly per- 
sons returning during a lull in the volcanic storm. 

So the city of Pompeii was removed from the 
world's stage of action and sealed for nearly two 
thousand years, to be unsealed again for our own 
generation as a specimen of that long past life. At 
first one wonders how it was that in a time of such 
enlightenment as that of the Caesars the buried city 
should have been lost to sight. But on second 
thought it is not so strange. If St. Pierre were 
buried now under twenty feet of ash, no one would 
think of exhuming it. If people wished to dwell 
there again they would do just what the later Ko- 
mans did, build over the city, and leave its ashes in 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 49 

peace. The interest in Pompeii to-daj, leaving 
aside the nameless curiosity of the tourist, is archae- 
ological; and that interest had no existence in 
the centuries which immediately succeeded the age 
of Pompeii. So the story of the city lapsed almost 
into oblivion, until some hundred and fifty years 
ago. In 1748 a peasant while digging happened 
upon the walls of a ruined house. The government 
at once took the matter of excavation in hand, and 
to-day the most important part of the ancient city 
has been laid bare. 

The visitor to ISTaples whose time is limited has a 
choice of excursions — Capri with its blue grotto, the 
crater of Vesuvius, and Pompeii, any one of which, 
taken at leisure, costs a day. We chose the last, 
and having secured tickets from an up-town office, 
set out for the station to catch the ten o'clock train. 
But there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip 
of the traveler in Italy. An evil genius prompted 
us to inquire of a guard before the central station 
where the train to Pompeii could be found. He 
was impervious to English, French, or German, 
which was the limit of our repertoire. But a native 
guide, who understood some English — beware of the 
tribe, all ye who travel in this land of parasites — 
informed us that we were at the wrong place, and 
offered to show us where our train was waiting. We 
followed him^ only to learn on getting there that it 
was the wrong place. Betracing our steps, we 
4 



50 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 

found the train just gone. The next train landed 
us in the roofless city just at noon of a July day. 

Having secured the services of a licensed guide — 
Pompeii is one of the few places where the traveler 
really profits by the services of a guide — and paid 
the lira and a half which the government exacts of 
every visitor, we entered the famous ruins and 
wandered through them for several hours with what 
enjoyment the torrid heat permitted. Several 
other Americans sought safety under the leadership 
of our guide. One's fellow travelers are often as 
interesting as the native attractions. There was a 
young drummer in the party who had evidently 
gotten a month's vacation, and had decided to "do 
Europe" in that time. His first act, as self-ap- 
pointed spokesman for the crowd, was to instruct the 
guide: "Cut it short now. We don't want to be 
peeping into every hole and pecking at every rock 
like some of these tourists, and I've got to catch 
that 1.30 train back to Rome." Now he had come 
three thousand miles and spent large time and 
money, partly to see Pompeii, which, too, was well 
worth the seeing. Yet he purposed to devote just 
forty-five minutes to the buried city. Fortunately 
for some of the party who, though not given espec- 
ially to rock pecking, preferred to linger a little in 
the deserted streets, the guide said that he would 
show the young man out when his time was up, and 
return to the party; which he afterward did. 
Science has made possible the instantaneous photo- 
graph; but the human mind remains much like the 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 51 

plates of Daguerre, it requires a time exposure. 
We took our time, and dropped back into ancient 
Pompeii while our drummer friend was rushing to 
his engagement in modern Home. 

The remarkable state of Pompeii's preservation 
is due to the manner in which it was destroyed. It 
was not burned. The hot ash and pumice falling 
upon the roofs, which were tile supported by wooden 
beams^ charred the wood work till it gave way and 
the roofs fell in. The houses were then filled with 
ash, and covered well over with the same deposit, — 
sealed from sun and rain. So it came about that 
when this ash was removed after eighteen hundred 
years, the very fresco paintings on the walls of the 
rooms were in almost a perfect state of preservation. 
By the aid of these paintings one gets a glimpse into 
the voluptuous life of that age. The better dwell- 
ings had their walls decorated in real art, the fres- 
coes of a room harmonizing with the use to which it 
was put — fruits and meats and hunting scenes in 
the dining-room, nymphs and fountains in the baths. 
The Pompeian gentleman's whole house was an un- 
premeditated art gallery, beginning sometimes, as in 
the house of the Tragic Poet, with the mosaic floor 
of the vestibule, and running through corridors and 
rooms. One can but wonder what it cost to deco- 
rate a house, for the work was that of artists and 
not whitewashers. These Pompeian frescoes have a 
peculiar interest in that they are the oldest speci- 
mens of painting extant; they belong to the late 
Greek school, and through them we get nearest to 



62 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

the long-lost work of the Greek masters. The 
Pompeian was a connoisseur in art. Some of the 
finest bronzes extant were found in these ruins; for 
instance, the statuette known as ^^N^arcissus/' now 
in the museum at ^N'aples, a perfect gem for pose 
and proportion. 

In the houses were found many things of inter- 
est, which you may still see in the I^ational Mu- 
seum. Quantities of bread were found in the bak- 
eries, carbonized, but otherwise looking much as if 
the cook had forgotten her oven last week. 
Kneaded dough was also found in the tray. Plum 
cake was not unknown to the epicure of that day, 
as the charred remains of Pompeian pantries testify. 
In the museum you may see eggs that were laid 
about the time of Paul, and shells whose contents 
were consumed nearly two thousand years ago; and 
English walnuts that might well have been pulled 
from the embers of your hearth on yesterday. 
Bunches of grapes may be seen there too that were 
intended for a Roman palate when our forefathers 
were roaming wild along the shores of the Danube. 
Prunes, pears, and plums were also on that ancient 
menu, their blackened mummies perfectly pre- 
served to this day. The remains of a roast pig were 
found in a bakery. 

Passing through the Street of Portune, we en- 
tered the house where Glaucus lived in "The Last 
Days of Pompeii." The dog still keeps guard at 
the threshold, and by him you may see the inscrip- 
tion Cave Canem, written in mosaics of black and 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 63 

white. But no Glaucus comes out to welcome the 
visitor, nor are the chambers ready for the guest. 
The walls still bear the frescoes upon which Glaucus 
and his friend the Epicure looked when thej sat at 
feast in the long ago. The knives and forks and 
spoons thej used may still be seen, and the viands 
that were served on the sumptuous board. In the 
court yard are the jars from which their wine was 
drawn, and across the street is a wine booth with its 
jars let into the counter, where doubtless they 
stopped on their way from the baths. The flower 
beds are traceable in the court. The leaden pipes 
which supplied the house vdth water are in their 
place and ready yet to serve. And down in the 
museum at the entrance to the ruins you may pos- 
sibly look upon the very bodies of Glaucus and his 
friend, lying stark and stony as they were left when 
the whirlwind from Vesuvius took away their breath 
that summer day of 79 A. D. 

ISlot far off is "The House of the Surgeon," so 
called because of the surgical outfit found there — 
knives, lancets, probes, singly and in cases, besides 
many complicated instruments such as our surgeons 
use to-day; and along with them bottles of drugs. 
The art of Aesculapius was practised with evident 
skill in Pompeii. How often the knocker of that 
house sounded through the silent street in the nights 
of long ago, calling the physician to the bedside of 
some sufferer ! But all flesh is grass, and all the 
glory of man is as the flower of grass. The grass 
withereth and the flower fadeth away. The name- 



54 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

less sufferers are gone. The physician and his fame 
are likewise lost in the darkness of oblivion. 

At the farther extremity of the excavations and 
next to Vesuvius is the Herculaneum Gate, where 
legend says the Roman sentinel stood guard in the 
face of death. And just beyond it is the street of 
tombs, set on either side with marble monuments 
in the niches of which were deposited the ashes of 
the city's dead, before Pompeii became one common 
tomb of her citizens. Just inside the gate is the 
^'House of Diomede/' one of the most pretentious 
dwellings in all the city. It was built around a 
quadrangular court, and had a cellar running like 
a corridor the whole perimeter of the house. Here 
was kept the wine; the long neck jars you may see 
to-day, leaning against the walls, filled to the lip 
with the all-pervading ash. Here too the shovel of 
the excavator laid bare eighteen bodies of those who 
fled thither for safety from the deadly breath of the 
volcano. 

The baths of Pompeii are remarkable. They 
represent on a reduced scale the Roman bath, an 
institution which played no small part in the life of 
the later Roman. There is the cool chamber, where 
the bather took off his street garb, and prepared for 
exercise. The stone balls, resembling ten-pin balls, 
mark it as a sort of bowling alley. Exercise over, 
he entered a room heated by hot air passed through 
hollow walls. He then proceeded to the plunge 
bath, and to the massage. One comes close to his- 
tory as one sets foot upon the marble steps of the 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 55 

plunge bath, made smooth by the pressure of feet 
that passed two thousand years ago. 

With all his epicurean life, the Pompeian was 
not without his religion. Indeed, if we may judge 
from the temples to manifold deity that dot the 
ruins, he was too liberal along these lines, having 
almost reached the point at which Paul found the 
Athenians. There are temples to Jupiter and 
Apollo and Mercury and Hercules and Fortune. 
Then there is a temple to Isis, the Egyptian deity, 
which shows the presence of Oriental influence in 
the city. 

Passing down toward the exit, you turn aside to 
the museum. Here are specimens of the two thou- 
sand bodies exhumed. And what stories the stony 
bodies tell. Here is a slave who lingered in the 
service of his master too long, his servile station 
indicated by the girdle about his waist. Here is an 
old man with his iron-shod cane beside him; and 
here is a cripple with a shortened limb. Eor them 
the destroying storm was too swift. Here are a 
mother and daughter in the same bed. Did the 
daughter refuse to forsake an invalid mother even 
in the face of death ? Here are the bodies of crimi- 
nals found in their prison cell. Here is a young 
man with knotted muscles, perhaps a gladiator. 
And here is a child with its arms outstretched. 
Their ears have been deaf these eighteen hundred 
years, and their eyes have been sealed since that 
terrible night descended upon them from Vesuvius. 



56 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

But as jou look "upon them, fancy builds about them 
again the structure of that long-vanished life. 

So lies Pompeii with its dead beside the blue 
waters of the Mediterranean, wliile Vesuvius sends 
up its intermittent cloud of smoke, black by day, and 
red against the walls of night. And along the 
crescent shore of the bay stretches N'aples, its 
streets sprinkled anon with ashes from the volcano, 
and its pavements trembling with repeated quakings 
of the earth, while its people do not so much as lift 
their eyes toward the smoking mountain. 



CHAPTEK V 



RAMBIJES ABOUT ROME 



The days of our stay in J^aples were ended all too 
soon. But we left it with cheerful hearts, for the 
City of Seven Hills was in prospect. A hurried 
packing of grips on the last morning, a drive against 
time to the station, a running connection with the 
north-bound express, and we were off, bag and bag- 
gage, for Eome. It was a hot day; the dust and 
cinders almost unbearable; the accommodations 
none too good. But we enjoyed the ride, for all 
that. It was our first pretentious piece of conti- 
nental travel, and its novelties diverted us from the 
discomforts of the way. The cars on the continent 
are divided into compartments, which you enter at 
the side, with accommodation for four, eight, or 
more, according to the class. Through trains, how- 
ever, carry corridor cars, with a side passage the 
length of the car. The "smokers" are usually more 
numerous than the "non-smokers" on a European 
train — a comment upon the use of the weed; though 
the absence of cuspidors everywhere is note- 
worthy — the European gentleman leaves the quid 
to the peasant. There is also a compartment for 
"women only," so that ladies may travel alone 
without risk of exposure to unpleasant company. 
Few trains furnish drinking water; that you pro- 



58 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

cure along the way at a cent a glass, ^or is there a 
newsboy or fruit vender on the train. The con- 
ductor does not take up tickets; they are handed to 
the gate-keeper at the place of destination. If you 
ride beyond the ticket Kmit you pay the extra fare 
and a fine. 

The roadbed is equal to any in America, but the 
rolling stock, especially in Italy, is inferior to that 
of our trunk lines. The engines look diminutive 
and antiquated beside the machines which pull our 
heavy freights and transcontinental flyers; but 
some of them nevertheless have a speed of fifty 
miles an hour. As no stock are allowed to roam, 
the cowcatcher is unnecessary and is dispensed with; 
but its absence makes the locomotive look like a 
hairHpped woman. Every crossing has its guard- 
ian, who stands like a sentry, \vith trumpet to warn 
of the approaching train and flag to wave it the right 
of way. And every station has a pretentious build- 
ing, with attendants enough to see that the traveler 
and the road both get their deserts. Accidents are 
rare on the continent, not because trains run slower 
than with us, but because every precaution is taken. 
Moreover, the continental train keeps its schedule 
promise. In two months of travel we were never 
so much as an hour late. One fain puts up with a 
little jolting if he may get there on time. 

The country through which we passed en route to 
Rome is one of remarkable fertility, considering its 
mountainous nature. No such thing as wornout 
fields in these long-tilled lands. That is an Ameri- 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 69 

can coinage, corresponding to a fact in our economic 
life. After three thousand years of use these lands 
yield bountifully. And that, because the Italian 
farmer cares for his land as well as for his crop. 
The crop is the year's interest; the land is the prin- 
cipal. We ran through countless acres of wheat, 
rye, and oats, yellowing to the harvest. The reapers 
were in the fields with their hooks. Think of har- 
vesting a thousand acres with reap hooks; for that 
was the only implement we saw along the entire 
way, though steam threshers were not uncommon. 
Poppies were a feature of the fields, blending with 
the yellow grain or dyeing the stubble red with their 
myriad blossoms. We were surprised to find, too, 
a large acreage of Indian corn, for the European has 
never taken to that cereal, and corn bread is not 
offered on the table — the crop is evidently for the 
barn. The ox is the favorite farm animal — a huge 
white creature with horns like a Texas steer, form- 
ing a picturesque feature of the landscape. On 
this tour we had the privilege of seeing three months 
of harvest. The season was closing when we left 
home; we caught it at high tide in Italy, followed 
it through Switzerland, Germany, France, England, 
and saw it ebb out over the Scotch highlands. 

As the sun was sinking to the western horizon we 
turned the crest of the mountain, and began to glide 
down toward the Eternal City. An ancient aque- 
duct across the Campagna told us we were nearing 
our destination, and as the shades of night settled 
over the land we caught sight through the gathering 



60 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

gloom of the dome of St. Peter's indistinct against 
the darkening skj. A few minutes of eager expect- 
ancy, and we were in the city of the Caesars — 
landed there by a panting locomotive. What would 
the shade of the great Roman say to see his city thus 
invaded ? 

A short drive through the night and we were at 
our stopping-place under the Pincio. It was most 
delightful, this home of Professor Sicuro and his ex- 
cellent wife. They had postponed their summer 
outing at the request of common friends, in order to 
receive us. Our host was a Greek by birth, an 
Italian by long adoption, a scholar by training, a 
gentleman by nature. His wife, an Italian lady, 
and their niece, made up the family. French, 
Italian, and English were spoken at table, besides 
the native tongue of the host when he could find a 
Grecian ear. So we entered Pome through hos- 
pitable doors. 

The day of our arrival was said by the thermom- 
eter to be the hottest the city had experienced in 
seventy years — and thermometers are not usually 
prejudiced. At any rate, we were prepared to sup- 
port the mercury in this case. Evidently, if we 
were to do any sight-seeing it had to be done in the 
early and later hours, when Apollo was not so busy 
with his golden arrows. The Colosseum and the 
Appian Way are not inviting with the mercury at 
one hundred and four in the shade. One of our 
first days we set aside for these, and made arrange- 
ments with some cabmen to be at our door by five 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 61 

o'clock in the morning. They were punctual; and 
after a hasty breakfast of coffee and stale bread, we 
set out at sunrise for a drive among some of the 
world's most historic scenes. 

Our route lay through the modern city, which has 
gro^vn westward from the Eome of the Caesars. 
Modern Rome boasts all the improvements of the 
twentieth century — automobiles, electric lights, 
cable cars, and many another thing that was not 
dreamed of in Cicero's philosophy. But all these 
we left behind as we dropped down between the 
Quirinal and the Capitoline. Crossing the Via 
^Rationale and turning into the Street of Serpents, 
we caught sight of the noblest ruin of antiquity, the 
Colosseum. No picture of pen or pencil can do it 
justice. It must be seen. Sacked by Vandals, 
shaken by earthquakes, crumbled by time, quarried 
for centuries, it still stands the most imposing struc- 
ture of ancient times — one of the seven wonders of 
the world. As we drove down to it towering there 
against the background of cerulean sky, the morn- 
ing sun brought out in lights and shadows the details 
of the splendid pile. We alighted in its shadow, 
passed under the massive arches along ways which 
two thousand years ago were wont to be thronged 
with merry crowds, and came into the arena. 
Around us rose the ruins of the great amphitheater, 
its ornate magnificence gone now, but majestic still, 
like some mighty man who has risen out of life's 
battle stripped and scarred, but commanding in his 
very dignity. How must the Colosseum have 



62 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

looked to tlie gladiator when fifty thousaiid faces 
were turned upon him from the now deserted slopes ; 
when emperors and vestal virgins and senators and 
the nobility of the world's then capital lent their 
presence to the scene ? We climbed to the topmost 
walls, and looked across. Ample need for lorgnettes 
when society was on display there, for one's vis-a-vis 
was a hundred yards away. The outer walls are 
five feet thick at the top, and some of the stones 
even in the highest tiers weigh many tons. How 
many years the Colosseum was in building or how 
many lives were worn out in raising its mighty walls, 
history fails to tell. It is said that ninety thousand 
captive Jews at one time worked upon it. 

But the day grew on apace, and the Campagna 
was before us. Leaving the Colosseum, we set out 
for the Appian Way, passing under the arch which 
the Emperor Constantino erected sixteen centuries 
ago. Country wagons were coming into the 
city as we drove out, bringing their produce to 
market — fruits and vegetables, and mountains of 
fragrant hay drawn by patient cattle. Out 
toward the ramparts of ancient Rome we passed 
the Baths of Caracalla. They were the most elab- 
orate and luxurious of their day, being two hundred 
and fifty yards long and half as wide, ornamented 
with the best that art could furnish. Two of the 
most famous statues extant were found here, the 
Farnese Bull and the Farnese Hercules. A little 
farther the Sebastian Gate lifted its scarred battle- 
ments above the roadway. What history these tur- 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 63 

rets have looked down upon! Their portals have 
given passage to men of universal fame — Caesar 
and Pompey, Cicero and Seneca, Paul and perhaps 
Peter. Having passed the barrier, we were on the 
Appian Way — most famous perhaps in the world. 
It was begun some three hundred years before the 
Christian era and gradually extended to the seaport 
of Brundisium. It was the chief way of egress and 
ingress to the city. Over it emperors passed on 
their triumphal entries. Along its sides stood the 
tombs of the great and opulent. It was the main 
artery of Roman life. But now emperor and em- 
pire are gone, the current of life has ebbed away, 
and only ruins remain. Across the fields we could 
see the broken arches of ancient aqueducts which 
once brought water from the Alban mountains to 
supply the city. And beneath the historic arches 
Italian plowmen were turning the furrows with 
stolid indifference. So does familiarity breed con- 
tempt. 

We stopped at the Catacombs of St. Calixtus, one 
of those places of sepulture which honeycomb the 
earth of this section, the burial places of the early 
Christians. I^othing above ground indicates the 
presence of the Catacombs except some modern 
houses erected to serve the guardians of the place. 
A monk in brown cassock and cord showed us 
through a section of the tombs. Taking a lighted 
taper and giving one to each of the party, he led the 
way down a narrow flight of steps that dropped into 
the earth. At once we were in Egyptian darkness, 



64 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

relieved only by the feeble flicker which our tapers 
cast upon the gruesome walls. The voice of our 
guide echoed weirdly through the sepulchral silence 
of these invaded graves. As he held his taper aloft, 
we could see the niches, tier on tier, hollowed into 
the walls of the corridors for the reception of the 
dead. In these niches the bodies were placed, and 
marble slabs suitably inscribed closed the openings. 
There are twelve miles of these passages. In time 
of persecution the Christians took refuge here, and 
here many of them suffered death at the hands of 
their enemies, while not a few doubtless lost them- 
selves in the mazes, and perished. Those who have 
read ^^The Marble Faun" will recall the weird 
picture which the author draws of Miriam wander- 
ing in the Catacombs. Our guide pointed out the 
tomb of the martyred St. Cecilia, containing an effigy 
of the saint, and showed us the wasted mummies of 
one or two early martyrs. But with these rare ex- 
ceptions, the Catacombs are as empty as if Gabriel's 
trump had sounded through the silent ways. Goths 
and Vandals first sacked the Catacombs during the 
siege of Eome in the early centuries, and afterward 
the scattered bones of the saints were gathered and 
deposited elsewhere. What undreamed changes a 
thousand years can work. I^ero burned the Chris- 
tians to light his orgies. His successors hunted 
them to the death. But to-day Home is Christian, 
and a statue of the ISTazarene's disciple crowns the 
column which Trojan erected to perpetuate his own 
glory. 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 65 

Beside the Appian "Way stands a little churcli 
founded upon legend. Over its portal are inscribed 
the words ^^Domine quo vadis?'' Tradition sajs 
that Peter, finding persecution too bitter in the 
Eoman capital, fled from the city; but as he was 
hastening along the way, Christ appeared. On the 
saint's asking, ^^Domine quo vadis? — ^Master, 
whither goest thou? — the Saviour replied that he 
was on his way to Rome to endure persecution in the 
apostle's stead. At this rebuke the fugitive turned 
back to face his persecutors, and the Master 
ascended again. The church w^as built to mark the 
spot. We stopped and entered the place of wor- 
ship. On the floor in front of the entrance is a 
block of marble bearing the deep intaglio of two 
feet. It is a copy of an original in San Sebastiano, 
which original^ tradition says, is the stone from 
which Christ ascended, the footprints being his last 
upon earth. As we stood around the relic with no 
too reverent curiosity, several of the faithful 
turned in from the way, and kneeling kissed the 
stone, crossing themselves and murmuring a morn- 
ing prayer. 

Turning back toward the city, we drove across 
field to St. Paul's Without the Walls. By this time 
the morning was well advanced, and that pervasive 
silence which marks a summer noon was settling 
over the land. The hot air quivered on the hills. 
The birds had taken refuge in the hedges. A pedes- 
trian sat in the shadow of a wall. An ox, over- 
5 



66 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

come by heat, had fallen upon the way, and his 
anxious owner was standing over him. Our drivers 
ceased to urge their own steeds, and we jogged along 
at a moderate gait. 

Over the brow of a low hill we caught sight of the 
great church, a rival of St. Peter's, sitting beside 
the Tiber. The first impression is one of incon- 
gruity. The cathedral seems out of place in the 
landscape of a countryside, so far from anything of 
similar proportions. But the visitor must remem- 
ber that St. Paul's was not built as a place of wor- 
ship for the people of its vicinity. It was built near 
where tradition says St. Paul was beheaded, and is 
a monument to the life and death of the great 
apostle to the gentiles. It is a world shrine. To it 
Eg}^t, England, and Russia have made their con- 
tributions. You pass between the splendid granite 
monoliths that bear up the portico on the Tiber 
side, push back the padded curtain that closes the 
entrance, and before you in the subdued light of the 
sanctuary stretches the nave, one hundred and 
thirty yards of marble floor polished like a mirror, 
and on either side double aisles with double rows of 
granite columns, eighty in number, above whose 
capitals are the portraits of the popes in mosaic, a 
long line from Peter to Leo XIII. The emptmess 
and silence of the great basilica are oppressive. 
We were alone in the vast expanse of marble 
beauty, save for a monk who tended the altar and 
a beggar who asked alms in the midst of this 
splendor. 



WITH THE TOHEIST TIDE 67 

Two miles and more througli the hills is the 
Church of the Three Foimtains, hidden among the 
eucalyptus trees. It marks the spot, says legend, 
upon which St. Paul was executed. In it are pre- 
served the stone pillar to which the apostle was 
chained and the block on which his head was laid 
for the axe. Here too are shown the three foun- 
tains which sprang up when the martyr's head fell 
to the earth and bounded away from the block. 
You do not see the springs, to be sure, for the 
attendant dips water from hidden sources with long 
ladle, but many things must be taken on faith in 
this world. The church is situated in a low, marshy 
spot, made tenantable by the planting of eucalyptus 
trees. We lingered under the pleasant shade, and 
quenched our thirst at the fountain of cool water 
that burst from the hillside. Looking out over the 
ardent landscape, we could but wonder why the 
Romans did not make way with their prisoner inside 
the city that hot June day in the long ago. 

Turning our faces once more toward the city, and 
passing the spot where Peter and Paul took last 
leave of each other, we came to the Ostian gate. 
Just outside this gate is the Pyramid of Cestius; 
but we had not come to see the Pyramid. Beyond 
the gate we alighted and entered the Protestant 
cemetery, which nestles close under the ancient ram- 
parts amid stately cypress trees. Here are sleeping 
some whose names the world has been imwilling to 
forget. A marble slab marks the spot where Shel- 
ley's heart was buried, and around it the violets are 



68 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

growing under the soft Italian sky. We plucked a 
leaf for memory^s sake, and thought of the imperish- 
able song which that heart gave to the world in the 
few short years of its beating. How still it is now 
under the shade of the trees. Just across the nar- 
row walk is the resting-place of John Addington 
Symonds, that cheerful spirit, who fought off death 
till he had rendered a priceless service to the world 
of letters. In a corner somewhat removed is the 
grave of John Keats. The poor Italian sexton 
showed the way, and thanked us for the proffered 
penny. Little did he know what that spot means to 
the lovers of English song. A modest monument 
marks the last resting-place of the poet, and on it 
are the well-known words, written by him who sleeps 
under the sod, "Here lies one whose name was writ 
in water.'' Beside him is his friend Severn. And 
over their graves the pines are sobbing, while the 
ivy keeps their memories green. Of the spot Shel- 
ley said prophetically^ "It might make one in love 
with death, to think that one should be buried in so 
sweet a place." In this cemetery sleeps too Con- 
stance Fenimore Woolson. Here they lie, far from 
the lands which gave them birth. But it matters 
little where the body rests; "To live in hearts we 
leave behind is not to die.'' 

Leaving the cemetery, we passed under the 
shadow of the Palatine hill, where successive em- 
perors had their palaces; where Cicero lived and 
CataHne and Clodius and many a Roman Senator. 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 69 

But the glory has departed from the famous hill, 
and crumbling walls now cumber its slope. 

Another day we went down into the Roman 
Forum, just by the Palatine. We stood on the spot 
from which Cicero hurled his oration against Cata- 
line — and thereby unwittingly sinned against many 
a modern schoolboy. We saw the spot where 
Caesar fell. We walked in the house of the Vestal 
Virgins. We passed over the site of Caesar's Ba- 
silica, and saw the figures which the lazzaroni traced 
in the still remaining pavement, playing at their 
games till free corn should be distributed in the 
streets. About the Forum were once temples to 
Jove and Saturn and Concord and Castor. Eight 
columns remain of the temple of Saturn and three 
of the temple of Castor. All else is gone. The 
very site of the Rostra has been with difficulty fij^ed. 
One shuts one's eyes upon the waste places, while 
imagination builds up again the teeming life which 
animated them in the long ago. Is it possible that 
men will some day mark the site of our Capitol by a 
few crumbling walls and search in vain for traces 
of the White House ? 

Beside the Forum is the Mamertine prison — now 
become a church. It is generally believed to be the 
place where Paul was confined, and from which he 
despatched the Epistles to Timothy. If so, he had 
ample need of the cloak from Troas, for no ray of 
light could find its way into that dungeon. There 
is an upper and a lower dungeon, connected in early 
times only by a manhole in the floor of the upper. 



TO WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 

The prisoner was let down tlirougli this hole to await 
the pleasure of his captors. Tradition, which flour- 
ishes in ancient lands, says that both Peter and Paul 
were confined here; and in support of the story 
their fetters and the stone post to which they were 
bound are shown in the lower dungeon. Here too 
is the spring which leaped up at Peter's bidding 
when the jailor was converted and water was needed 
for the baptism. A stairway was cut to the lower 
cell long after apostolic days; but the guide Avill 
point out to you in the stone wall the intaglio of a 
face, and tell you that it is where Peter struck his 
head as he was being carried down. Surely he de- 
served his symbolic name if this be true, hardheaded 
man that he was. N^or are these the only names 
that echo from the dark cells of the Mamertine. 
Here perished the noble Gaul Vercingetorix, a sacri- 
fice to just ambition and Caesar's power. This way 
Jugurtha, the E^umidian king, passed from the stage 
of action^ starved to death in utter darkness a hun- 
dred years before the star of Bethlehem. Here the 
confederates of Cataline met their fate. Here the 
last defender of Jerusalem, Simon Bar Gioras, suf- 
fered death while Titus was celebrating his triumph 
on the Capitol above. And with them a great host 
of those whose names have not survived the cen- 
turies. The strata of history lie deep upon this 
spot. When one stands in such a place, the dry 
bones of the past are clothed with living flesh. 

From here w^e climbed the steep ascent to the 
Capitol, once the very pinnacle of the world. In 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 71 

the center of the square is the splendid statue of 
Marcus Aurelius. But the temple of Jupiter and 
the other buildings which through successive ages 
crowned this summit are no more. The very sites 
are vanished. The visitor of to-day is drawn to the 
Capitol by its art collection. This contains some of 
the most precious sculpture extant — the Faun of 
Praxiteles, from which Hawthorne got his concep- 
tion of the "Marble Faun'' ; the Dying Gaul, a work 
of great power; and the Venus of the Capitol. 

We went to St. Peter's once, and then again to 
see if we could comprehend its immensity. It is 
scarcely possible to appreciate the size of the edifice, 
so huge it is, and so intricate are the architectural 
parts. One never sees it as a unit except at a dis- 
tance too great for dimensions. There is a copper 
ball above the dome, which we estimated from the 
street to be about two feet in diameter. On climb- 
ing to it we found that a man could stand upright 
with three feet space above his head. It is an adage 
that figures do not lie. Thomas Carlyle said that 
nothing lies more than figures, unless it be facts. 
Certainly in the case of St. Peter's this is true. The 
cross over the high altar is ninety-five feet from the 
floor. It does not look half the distance. The dome 
has a pitch of three hundred and eight feet. Look- 
ing up from within you would declare the figures 
false. The church is so large and its walls so mas- 
sive that changes of weather do not greatly affect 
the temperature within. The day we visited it was 
intensely hot; but the mercury stood below eighty 



72 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

within the portals. A cool draft of air was rushing 
out of the door as if driven by a giant fan. 

One can grow weary simply making the round of 
the church. There are tombs and monuments in- 
numerable to the popes, — Gregory of calendar 
fame and the rest, — all in purest Italian marble, and 
of heroic size. In one place are ten confessionals, 
each devoted to the use of a separate language, so 
that pilgrims from the ends of the earth may make 
confession here in their several tongues. As we 
passed among them penitents were seeking absolu- 
tion. ^Not far away in the nave is the bronze statue 
of St. Peter, one toe almost gone with the oscula- 
tions of centuries. As we looked on, three aged 
women came up, kissed the bronze, bowed their fore- 
heads on it a moment, crossed themselves, and went 
on their way, yielding place to a man of cultured 
mien, who performed the same devotions. About 
the high altar under Michael Angelo's dome the 
ninety-five ever-burning lamps were sending up 
their incense, and the intermittent chanting of the 
priests in the choir was wafted through the forest of 
mighty columns, ebbing out in vain endeavor to fill 
the vast cathedral. 

Leaving the church, we visited the galleries of the 
Vatican, passing the rainbow-uniformed guard of 
the Pope's possessions; for you must remember that 
since the coming of Victor Emmanuel and United 
Italy, the papal possessions are limited to St. Peter's 
and the Vatican. And since that day no pope has 
passed beyond these narrow limits of his temporal 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 73 

power. A long flight of stone steps meandering 
through the conglomerate pile of the Vatican brings 
you at last to the Stanzas of Eaphael and the papal 
collection. The world travels far to see a few square 
yards of canvas consecrated by the touch of genius. 
To only a few men in the flight of centuries is it 
given to bring the world a new message. Such was 
the service of this painter from Urbino, dead before 
the blush of youth was off his cheek. And ever 
since he laid down the brush artists have been in- 
terpreting his message. In the Sistine Chapel are 
Michael Angelo's marvelous frescoes. What a man- 
ifold genius was this Elorentine, who after having 
given up the brush for the chisel, suddenly took the 
brush again in old age, and mounting to the scaffold, 
threw across the Sistine ceiling the world's finest 
frescoes. In the gallery of sculpture, to reach which 
one makes almost a complete circuit of the church, 
are the Laocoon and the Apollo Belvedere, by which 
masterpieces the tourist tide flows steadily. 

One of our rambles took us out beyond the 
Tiber to the Janiculum Hill. It was a pleasant 
morning. Day clouds drifted across the blue, and 
zephyrs stirred the tree-tops. We drove leisurely 
up the winding way, past statues and fountains, 
to the crest of the hill. Beneath us was the 
panorama of the city, St. Peter's to the left with the 
park-crowned Pincio in the background, the Capi- 
toline and Palatine to the right, the level Campagna 
stretching away to the horizon, and through it all 
Father Tiber flowing slowly to the sea. Beside us 



74 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

rose an heroic equestrian statue of Garibaldi, who 
was to Italy what Bismarck was to Germany. Here 
overlooking the capital city his country has erected 
to his memory a monument that may be seen for 
miles. One face of the pedestal bears a symbol of 
America — Liberty supported by the winged Mer- 
cury of commerce, and by Ceres bearing her sickle 
and cornucopia. Coming down, we passed Tasso's 
oak, under the branches of which the poet was wont 
to sit in contemplation of the city, and where after- 
ward Goethe loved to linger during his stay in 
Rome. 

Another ramble, through the Villa Borghese and 
the Pincian park, brought new delights, and at its 
conclusion an amusing experience. The cabman de- 
manded more pay than the tariff justified. When 
we offered him five and a half lire, he haughtily re- 
fused it, and when we laid the money in his cab he 
ran after us and returned it. We pocketed the 
change, and told him he could call and get it at his 
leisure. He climbed five flights of steps twice, the 
last time bringing a policeman to adjust the differ- 
ence; and finally got, in accordance with the offi- 
cer's estimate, Rye cents less than he had been of- 
fered at first. But the Italian hackman cannot exist 
without excitement, and no doubt he was entirely 
satisfied. 

One can ramble for months in Home and see 
something new every day. But the tourist must be 
satisfied with visits to the most famous places if he 
would see tlie treasures which Italy holds in her 
other cities. 



CHAPTER YI 

ZIGZAGGING TKROUGH ITALY 

It was a beautiful morning when we took leave 
of the Eternal City, en route for Pisa. The sun 
was just rising over the distant hills as we ran out 
along the Tiber, bade adieu to St. Paul's Without 
the Walls, and took a last look at the majestic 
dome of St. Peter's fading on the far horizon. 
Surely no traveler ever left Rome without feeling 
the incompleteness of his sojourn there, or without 
the hope that some day he might be able to renew 
his acquaintance with the city of the Caesars. One 
leaves Rome with the purpose to study more thor- 
oughly its wonderful history, and to come back one 
of these days better able to appreciate the visible 
vestiges of its great career. This is one of the re- 
wards of travel — a desire for larger knowledge of 
things. 

Our route took us down the valley of the Tiber 
almost to ancient Ostia, then turning north, it 
skirted for hours the ever-changing coast of the 
Mediterranean, whose waters that morning lay blue 
as lapis lazuli under the Italian sky. Scarcely a 
breath of air kissed the surface of the sea, and the 
waves lapped the shore as lazily as though they, too, 
had turned lazzaroni for the nonce. Wherever the 
yellow shoals ran down beneath the waters there 



76 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

was a wonderful play of color, the deep blue of the 
sea mingling with the light from the sands below, 
and shading away iris-like into tints of emerald — 
while the white crest of a wavelet trembled anon 
like a pearl on the bosom of the sea. How steadily 
the old earth held that Cleopatra cup in her hand 
as she danced along her orbit among the stars. 

We ran through a region of beautiful farm lands, 
the fields rolling gently down to the very water's 
edge. Here, too, they were ripe to the harvest, and 
the reapers, men, women, and children, were gath- 
ering the golden grain by handf uls with their quaint 
reap hooks. It was a picture for Millet's brush — in 
the background the shimmering blue waters, in the 
foreground the yellow grain with the poppies be- 
tween and the harvesters in their vari-colored garb. 
The people are poor. Yet who can tell when a 
Raphael may rise from among them to throw on 
canvas these marvelous blendings of color, or a 
Dante come to sing the song of a soul's deep sor- 
rows. Eor the gifts of the gods, like the bolts of 
Jove, fall in unexpected places. We left them at 
their work with our blessings on them and their 
country, the woman land, which Browning truly 
says is loved by all male lands. They have their 
work under their own sky, and we travelers have 
ours in the great new world beyond the sunset, 
whither we must return to the stern duties of life 
when our season of sight-seeing is done. 

l^oonday brought us to the little town of Pisa, 
made famous by a tower that went wry and a man 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 77 

that went right — the leaning campanile and Galileo 
Galilei. It was in the cathedral here that Galileo 
saw the swinging candelabrum, and conceived the 
idea of measuring time by a pendulum. What deep 
eyes Galileo and I^ewton had — through all ages men 
had seen things swinging or falling, yet it remained 
for these two men to see and apply the patent prin- 
ciple of nature's object lesson. And for him who 
has eyes deep enough she still has wonders to reveal. 
We made our way on foot through the narrow 
streets of the town, crossed the bridge that spans 
the Arno, and came to the cathedral on the farther 
edge of the place. We climbed the campanile, one 
hundred and eighty-one feet of leaning marble, with 
its stories of circling colonnades rising white against 
the sky. ^N'orth of us the first sentinels of the Alps 
were dimly visible through the haze. To the west 
we could see the waters of the Mediterranean six 
miles away. Boys that we were, we lay down among 
the great bells that swing in the arches of the cam- 
panile top, and fell asleep under the wooing of the 
sea breeze. But we were roused by the tongues of 
the bells before our siesta was done, and gladly 
enough put more space between us and the clam- 
orous bronze. Having got down, we made our way 
through the beggars that besieged the door of the 
cathedral, and stood under Galileo's lamp. We 
passed thence to the baptistery, saw Pisano's famous 
pulpit, which has preached more art than religion, 
paid some soldos to hear the echo of the sexton's 
voice tossed back and forth beneath the dome, and 



78 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

went out to purcliase a few souvenirs before our 
train should leave. The campanile leans thirteen 
feet from the perpendicular, its inclination probably 
due to the settling of the foundation while the work 
was in progress. Erom its leaning side Galileo 
made his experiments. Besides this group of build- 
ings, including the Campo Santo, there is little of 
interest in Pisa for the transient tourist. The town, 
once a power in the Italian peninsula and on the 
Mediterranean, has now settled into a sleepy city of 
some fifty thousand people, through which the 
Arno flows softly, as if not to disturb the dreaming. 

The late afternoon train took us to Florence, up 
the Valley of the Arno. The road runs beside the 
river all the way, with the foot-hills of the Ape- 
nines falling back on either side. The lengthening- 
shadows of evening lent a certain beauty to the land- 
scape. Tall poplars by the riverside threw their 
shadows across the soft meadows or found mellow 
reflection from the surface of the water. Stately 
cypress trees crowned the hills, and on the slopes 
olive orchards gave a silver touch to the landscape. 
As we neared Florence the scenes were enlivened by 
bathers, who disported themselves in the river or 
basked on the shoals. We reached our hotel on the 
Piazza del Duomo as the shades of night were fall- 
ing, and by the time we had refreshed ourselves with 
some of Tuscany's vintage it was too late to do more 
than mingle with the crowd upon the Mercato Vec- 
chio, and listen to the music of the military band. 

Florence is lovely for situation. To see it in its 



WITH THE TOITEIST TIDE 79 

setting one must climb the heights of Eiesole. And 
the very path by which you climb is rich in memo- 
ries. Half way up is the ancient monastery of San 
Domenico, the home of Era Giovanni, now known 
to the world of art as Era Angelico. Here he lived 
in obscurity till called down into the city to adorn 
the cells of San Marco with those angel forms which 
have made his name immortal. I^ot far away, half 
hidden in the cypress trees, is the villa where Landor 
spent many years. Beyond these historic spots, be- 
yond the ruins of the old Roman fort and amphi- 
theater, you come to the very summit of the hill, 
commanding one of the loveliest panoramas in all 
Italy. Away to the north the Apenines fall back 
rank on rank. Across the broad valley to the south 
rise the heights of San Miniato. To the west are 
the hills of Lucca, through a gap of which flows the 
river of Etruscan gold. In the very heart of this 
'^^island valley of Avilion" lies Florence, shimmer- 
ing in the sun. As far as the eye can reach the val- 
ley is dotted with villas which peep out from their 
slopes along the Arno. The slopes themselves are 
touched with the silver of olive trees, and the broad 
expanse of the valley lies green with the foliage of 
orchards. Out of the midst of the city, like the 
stamen from the heart of a lily, rises the Duomo, 
and beside it Giotto's tower, the cathedral's cam- 
panile. Within the circle of those hills have lived 
Dante and Boccacio, Machiavelli and Michael An- 
gelo, Galileo and Savonarola, Giotto and Raphael — 
,a galaxy of names such as few lands can boast. 



80 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

When we looked from our windows the first morn- 
ing in Florence, it was upon that famous group of 
buildings — the cathedral, the campanile, and the 
Baptistery. Of these, when we were finally come 
upon the Piazza, the "Shepherd's Tower" claimed 
our first attention, rising in delicate beauty straight 
up against the morning sky^ its marbles like the robe 
of Aurora, the light and the dark with the pink be- 
tween. This is Giotto's tower, built by the shepherd 
boy whom one day six centuries ago Cimabue found 
out on the Etruscan hills drawing one of his sheep 
upon a stone, and brought home with him to become 
a greater than himself, this Giotto, before Angelo 
the master builder. ISTow, Giotto, when he designed 
this structure, did not aspire to sky-scraping steeples, 
but desired to build so that the tower should be in 
harmony with its purpose, which purpose was to 
bear the sacred chimes of the cathedral. And well 
did the builder carry out his design, for the sacred- 
ness of the tower is writ upon it in stone so clear 
that he who runs may read. About the base, not 
wholly beyond the reach of vandal hands, are twen- 
ty-seven exquisite reliefs in marble, the story of the 
Bible. The first and second represent the creation 
of man and woman, "male and female created he 
them"; and the third, their labor, "in the sweat of 
thy face shalt thou eat bread"; the rest filling out 
the sacred story. 

So in the foundation of the tower was laid stone 
by stone the wonderful story of man. In the panels 
above, in lil^e manner^ are the seven beatitudes, the, 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 81 

seven symbols of mercy, the seven elements of jus- 
tice, and the seven sacraments; while higher still in 
the niches are figures of patriarchs and prophets. 
Above these rises the square tower in colors of white 
and pink and black, its faces broken by pointed 
windows, like pauses that make music of sound. 

Where did the shepherd boy learn to mingle such 
grace, beauty, and endurance? Eor you must re- 
member as you look up at his tower that its founda- 
tion was laid two hundred years before Columbus 
set sail toward the sunset. Revolutions of Guelph 
and Ghibelline have beat about its base, republics 
have risen and fallen in its shadow, yet not one 
stone has fallen, nor one flaw marred the beauty of 
its walls. For more than half a millennium its 
sweet-toned bells have wafted their music down over 
the city, regardless of discord in the streets. 

Beside it and even above it rises the cathedral, 
the work of Arnolfo and Brunelleschi. It was this 
dome of Brunelleschi which served Michael Angelo 
as model when he was called to design a dome for 
St. Peter's. "I shall build the sister larger," he 
said, ^'but not more beautiful." And indeed the 
dome of the Florence cathedral is second only to 
that of St. Peter's. But the interior of the church 
is cold and bare and uninviting. 

In front of the cathedral is the Baptistery, San 

Giovanni, an octagonal building of white and black 

marble, so ancient that its age is unknown, and yet 

in a perfect state of preservation. It probably 

6 



82 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

dates from the sixth centiiry, and tradition says that 
it superseded a temple to Mars upon the same spot. 
"The Baptistery of Florence/' says Ruskin, "is the 
last building raised on the earth by the descendants 
of the workman taught by Daedalus; and the 
Tower of Giotto is the loveliest of those raised on 
earth under the inspiration of the men who lifted up 
the tabernacle in the Avilderness. , Of living Greek 
work there is none after the Florentine Baptistery; 
of living Christian work, none so perfect as the 
Tower of Giotto." This is the "bella Giovanni" of 
which Dante sings, the place of his baptism, as it 
has been of Florentine children since his day. Its 
doors, when you draw near them in the rush and 
bustle of the square, are worthy your attention. 
That one especially which faces the cathedral is a 
masterpiece. The ten panels of marvelous bas 
relief which cover the double door all represent 
Bible scenes. It was these doors that Michael 
Angelo said "were worthy to be the gates of Para- 
dise." Here they have stood for centuries, with 
only an iron bar between them and the hackney 
stand; and the shadow of the Florentine cabby falls 
upon them as, all unconscious of their beauty, he 
drives a bargain with the would-be customer. Nor 
is the stranger always more appreciative, for as we 
stood beside these "gates," a carriage of visitors 
paused before them, but when the guide would have 
explained, one of the company called out, "Drive on, 
we'll take your word for it." 
Beyond this central group of buildings you will 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 83 

notice, if jou lift your eye, a great stern-faced 
structure from which rises against the sky a square, 
battlemented tower. It is the Palazzo Yecchio, the 
senate house of the ancient Florentine Republic in 
those early days when Venice and Genoa and Pisa 
and Florence had each a government of its own. 
What scenes of riot and crime that tower looked 
down upon in the days of party feud! What 
schemes for public and private preferment were 
hatched within its walls ! 

Here that despot Walter de Brienne was besieged 
by the outraged citizens in 1342, and from it he was 
banished when the wrath of the populace had been 
wreaked upon his confederates. In the tower a 
hundred and fifty years afterward Savonarola was 
confined; from it he was led out to torture for con- 
science' sake, and under its shadow his body was 
burned in the public square when life had been 
strangled out. IvTow that the Republic is gone and 
the cause of Savonarola is history and Guelph and 
Ghibelline are but names, the old palace has become 
a museum where the footfall of the tourist alone 
wakens the echoes. It is almost a desecration of 
such spots to make of them mere tarrying places 
on the highways of travel. N^ot many of those who 
come and go through its portals know aught of the 
history it has made. They look upon it with pass- 
ing interest. 

Near by is the Bargello, once the seat of the chief 
criminal magistrate of the city, now become the 
"E'ational Museum/' it too, like the Duomo and the 



84 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

Palazzo, the work of Arnolfo. What builders the 
Florentines were in the tumultuous days of their 
youth. But their palaces are empty now. You 
may find in their chambers specimens of the work 
of that departed life, as you may find mother-of- 
pearl in the empty shell; but in both cases the 
worker has laid down his tools. Here in the Bar- 
gello you may see Donatello's Saint George and 
John of Bologna's Winged Mercury and a varied 
collection of art from other hands, Delia Robbia 
among the rest; all come out of the Middle Ages. 
Florence of to-day seems to content herself with the 
works of her former sons. Her right hand has lost 
its cunning, and the world turns aside to the ancient 
city for the things she achieved in her youth. 

But those achievements were well-nigh enough for 
the life of one city, as you will feel when you turn 
your steps — for you ought to do your sight-seeing on 
foot in Florence — to another building near by the 
Arno shore. It is Santa Croce Church, built some six 
hundred years ago by Franciscan monks; known now 
as the Westminster Abbey of Florence, where her 
mightiest dead are buried. You pass the portal and 
come first to a marble tomb which you recognize by 
the bronze bust above it as that of Michael Angelo, 
greatest of sculptors and architects. Above the 
tomb are figures in heroic size by his pupils, repre- 
senting architecture, painting, sculpture, and song, 
in all of which the master excelled. The old man 
died in Rome, and the Pope desired him to be buried 
there, but the Florentines, jealous of their city's 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 85 

fame, took away tlie body secretly and brought it 
to rest here in the place of his nativity. 

Over against this is the tomb of Galileo, with a 
statue of the astronomer, telescope in hand, looking 
steadfastly up to the heavens. The Florentines 
honor him now whom in his day they were not wise 
enough to understand. For when he proclaimed 
that the earth moves about the sun, he was sternly 
ordered to recant the heresy under pain of fire. 
Tradition says that having recanted in the face of 
inquisition, he muttered as he passed out, "But she 
moves all the same." How long it has taken men 
to learn that the facts of God are not affected by 
the words of men! Galileo knew it, and Gamaliel 
knew it of old. 

Near these tombs is a monument to Dante, and on 
the square before the church another of heroic size. 
Him, too, the passionate Florentines drove out in 
their partisan hate, and now they would honor. 
Verily, we build the sepulchres of the prophets 
which our fathers killed. But his ashes lie in quiet 
Ravenna, which became to him a city of refuge 
when his own city had cast him out; nor will Ba- 
venna yield the precious dust to penitent Florence. 
Beside the monument -to the poet is the tomb of 
Machiavelli, greatest of Italian statesmen — 
"greater than all eulogy,'^ says the Latin inscription. 

One marvels how Florence could have wrought so 
well in the serene spheres of art and science while 
her streets resounded with internecine strife. Did 
these old Florentines work, like the ancient 



86 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

Hebrews on the walls of Jerusalem, a sword in one 
hand and a tool in the other? Or did they go 
quietly about their work, as did Goethe and Schiller 
in a later age, heedless of the strife which surged 
about them? 

Of all cities in the world Florence is the shrine 
at which the lover of art fain tarries longest. Her 
collection of paintings is unsurpassed. Besides her 
two splendid galleries, the Uffizi and the Pitti, and 
her Academy of Fine Arts, there are half a dozen 
churches and monasteries whose art treasures would 
distinguish any of our 'New World galleries. The 
British government recently paid $375,000 for a 
siQgle fair piece of Baphael's work. Reckoning by 
that standard Florence is a multi-millionaire, for 
her galleries contain, a score of Raphael's paintings, 
among the best from his brush. Indeed, one can 
hardly turn in the Uffizi or the Pitti without coming 
upon a Titian or a Dolci or a Murillo or a Veronese 
or a Correggio, or some work from a master hand. 

Yet for all such a gallery offers, the time spent 
there by the tourist often yields the poorest returns. 
The traveler who comes to Florence without ever 
having devoted an hour to the subject of art will 
find only a wearisome repetition of colors on even 
the walls of the Pitti palace. He walks through 
five hundred years of art in an hour, and wonders 
why it grows so irksome. Art demands time and 
attention. It is not to be understood by the un- 
trained eye; it is not to be mastered on a summer 
day. One may study a single piece of art with una- 



"WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 87 

bating pleasure for an entire morning, but to 
attempt a gallery in tbat time is futile. And yet, 
one morning when we were strolling through the 
Academy, there passed us a company of sight-seers 
who had already that day gone through the Uffizi 
and the Pitti. What a marvel of composite im- 
pression they must have carried away. It reminds 
one of Jerome's confession that he got so accom- 
plished in the "doing'' of picture galleries <that he 
made a hundred yards in twenty-seven seconds. 
Some of our own party congratulated themselves on 
the fine weather; a shower might have driven them 
into an art gallery, they said. 

One must admit that there is a great sameness 
in the subjects of Italian art. Madonnas, martyrs, 
saints, and angels about sum up the list, with a 
myth thrown in now and then by some daring spirit. 
Saint Sebastian faces you at every turn, looking 
ecstatically up to Heaven, quite heedless of the 
arrows that bristle from his body almost as thick 
as porcupine quills. And the pictures of the 
J^ativity often appear comical to the irreverent eye. 
The novice marvels that such crude conceptions 
should be hung here for the admiration of men. 
There, for instance, is one with the chubby babe 
lying prone on its back in the middle of a grass-plot 
robed in innocency, the mother and various other 
females kneeling at a respectful distance, their 
hands and eyes directed heavenward and impossible 
expressions on their faces — the donkeys and demure 
cows being the only members of that worshipful 



88 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

circle who pay the least attention to the child. 
The whole thing is superlatively unnatural. But if 
the spectator would appreciate the painting, he must 
not judge it by the standards of to-day. He must 
remember that this artist lived before the slogan of 
"art for art's sake" had been sounded, and that his 
aim was probably not to delight the eye, nor to ap- 
peal to the aesthetic side of men; but rather to 
teach that the birth at Bethlehem was so august 
that in its presence woman's tenderness and 
mother's love were sunk in reverence. Yonder too 
is a three-storied picture of the last judgment, with 
hell, earth, and heaven in ascending stages, the 
blessed borne up by angel cohorts, and the damned 
driven to the flames by winged devils with barbed 
forks. A hideous, revolting scene altogether, with 
poor perspective and worse proportion. But again 
the critic must bear in mind that the painting came 
out of an age which believed far more firmly than 
does ours in the reality of all these things; the 
artist's purpose was to preach a sermon rather than 
to paint a picture. 

The visitor to these Florentine galleries must 
recollect that art is an expression of Hfe, and that 
a history of art, such as the Uffizi gallery, is also in 
a way the history of those centuries out of which it 
has come. With this understanding, though one 
may be ignorant of the technique of art, he may 
spend many hours in the galleries of Florence, and 
vdth ever-increasing admiration. He will under- 
stand then the multiplied madonnas and martyrs. 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 89 

He will see then how the church, by means of these 
illuminated missals, instilled its teachings into the 
minds of the masses — for well-nigh all Italian 
painting of the Middle Ages was done in the shadow 
of the church. He will be able then to read in the 
deepening backgrounds of successive schools the 
growing interest of men in the natural world about 
them. 

And besides all this, there will often come to the 
wanderer in these halls the vision of forgotten pages 
out of his own life history, as here and there the 
chords of memory are touched. Yonder, for 
instance, is "The Madonna of the Chair," a print of 
which hung on the walls of mother's room in the 
long ago, and there is "David," associated with a 
much-thumbed book of schoolboy days. Here is 
"Venus de Medici" her very self ^ with her hands so 
awkwardly held, to whom we were first introduced 
in the days of our Greek Mythology. And here is 
the original little boy with the thorn in his 
foot. They take us back over the sea of waters 
and of time to the old home and the halo-circled 
days. We dream before them for a moment, look- 
ing through them to the departed years, and wake 
up to pass on into the years when these days too 
shall be halo-circled pictures hanging on memory's 
walls. 

And wandering through the galleries one often 
finds unexpected lights thrown upon the individual 
lives of the old masters. In the Ufiizi, for instance, 
you see the finished work of men whose names are 



90 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

written high in the halls of fame, work so perfect 
that it seems to have blossomed upon the canvas 
without effort, like the beauty of the rose. But 
down toward the end of the long corridor, if you will 
take the trouble to find it, is a collection of sketches 
by these masters, Michael Angelo, Titian, Raphael, 
and the rest. And looking upon these studies in 
pen and pencil, these chips from the master's work- 
shop, you may learn the great lesson that labor is 
the price which even genius must pay for profi- 
ciency. There are countless figures which Raphael 
drew and rejected in preparing his designs, labor 
that had to be done before brush was touched to 
canvas in execution of work which the world 
admires to-day. What infinite toil lies behind 
every painting that hangs on those walls! 

But Florence is not all art and architecture. 
Coming out of the Uffizi, you may stroll along the 
Lungarno where Tito used to lounge in the days of 
'^Romola,'' and where the Florentines of high and 
low estate still delight to sun themselves. You may 
cross Taddeo Gaddi's ancient bridge, the Ponte 
Vecchio, and pause at leisure among the shops that 
line it on either side — goldsmiths' shops they were 
in the prosperous days of Cosimo I, now become 
booths for gewgaws and fruits. You may pass on 
to the house where Robert Browning and his wife 
spent many happy years, the house of "Casa Guidi 
Windows," Avith the Pitti Palace across the sloping 
square, that palace which Lucca Pitti, a vain old 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 91 

Florentine, so the story runs, ordered his architect 
to build him here upon the heights, of such dimen- 
sions that the palace of his rival Strozzi might be 
set in its court — and was pauperized by his envy. 

E'or should you fail to visit at some time the San 
Lorenzo church, where, over the tombs of the 
Medici, you will see the finest work from Michael 
Angelo's chisel. And passing from there through 
the Via Cavour, you will come to San Marco, 
Savonarola's monastery, which, by virtue of this 
monk's unquenchable zeal for righteousness, just 
missed being the cradle of the Reformation. In 
the Prior's cell are preserved a few sacred relics, his 
crucifix and breviary, one of his sermons, his hair- 
shirt, and a fragment from the pile on which his 
body was burned that May day in 1498. 

Then turning from the deeds of dead Florence, 
you may loiter through the streets of the living city, 
and lose yourself for the moment in their maze 
while you drift with the sluggish tide or pause in an 
eddy to watch it flow past. You may drop into a 
restaurant at noon for a dish of macaroni fixed up 
in true Italian style. You may drive various bar- 
gains with shopkeepers for souvenirs, and always 
carry away the feeling that the native got the best 
of the bargain. You may take your excursions to 
the heights of San Miniato and down the lovely 
riverside park. It may be you will go further 
afield to the convent of Vallombrosa nestling among 
the great hills. 



92 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

And when tlie days of your sojourn have been 
numbered, you will pack your knapsack, and turn 
your back with reluctance upon the Lily of the 
Arno, taking with you a memory of this Tuscan city 
which will grow sweeter with the flight of years. 



CHAPTER VII 



THE ISLANB CITY 



From Florence to Venice — from the citj of the 
Medici to the city of the Doges. It is a highway of 
tourist travel. And justly so, for the Lily of the 
Arno and the Queen of the Adriatic are twin stars 
in the heavens of Italian history, each incomplete 
without the other, so like and yet so different; to 
be taken together always if the traveler would un- 
derstand them separate. 

And the very way which binds them is in keep- 
ing with these homes of art and history. It is a 
panorama of scenic beauty, linked with names about 
which are crystallized the stories of ages. Scarcely 
is the valley of the Arno left behind, when you are 
lost in the gorges of the Apenines. Up, up you 
wind along the flanks of the ancient hills, ever 
higher. The verdant valleys sink beneath you and 
their rivers, shimmering like lines of light, slope 
swiftly toward the plains. How quiet the valleys 
lie there under the sun in the lap of the great moun- 
tains, their solitude scarce disturbed by the 
scream of the locomotive. You watch the gliding 
landscape, till suddenly it is blotted out by the 
Egyptian darkness of a tunnel. In a moment 
another no less beautiful takes its place as you 
emerge again. At one point the tunnels succeed 



94 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

each other so closely that the whole train is rarely 
visible. One minute you are in the realm of gnome 
and elf, the next you are in that of Ariel and the 
spirits of the air, as the train rushes under the 
mountains or leaps the chasms between. Crowning 
a rocky height above you like an eagle's nest is the 
lonely home of some brotherhood, the very ascent 
to which would be penance enough for ordinary sins. 
Ear down in the valley are the scattered huts of the 
hardy mountaineer. And through the vista of the 
hills you catch fleeting glimpse of the cities of the 
plain. Panorama succeeds panorama, the shifted 
scenes of a great stereoscope where E^ature herself 
paints the slides. 

So we climbed the slope of the Apenines on a 
summer day. And so, when their crest was turned, 
we glided down the other side along the lovely val- 
ley of the Reno, passed out through the gap with its 
sparkling waters, and came to Bologna as the slant 
rays of the stooping sun began to project mountain 
shadows across the northern plain. Half an hour 
for refreshment in this historic city, and we were off 
again, for the vision of Venice lured us — this time 
athwart the level valley of the Po, with the hills 
receding behind us. The sun was setting as the 
pinnacles of Eerrara came into view, and as we 
crossed the river the landscape was bathed in the 
afterglow of sunset. Ancient Padua was wrapped 
in the mantle of night as our train passed through 
on its way to the island city of Italy. Einally 
Mestre, the last station on the mainland, was left 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 95 

behind, tlie train ran out upon tlie long viaduct, and 
the lights of the distant city began to twinkle across 
the dark waters. 

We had crossed viaducts before, miles of them, 
through monotonous wastes of water; commonplace 
things they were, resting on vulgar piers of stone, 
mere links in practical railroad lines. 'Not so with 
this one. It is no convenience for commerce. It 
is an ethereal thing, bridging the gulf between 
reality and dreamland. It is -GiYe hundred years 
long, for all you cross it in thirty minutes — one end 
of it resting in the twentieth century and the other 
in the fifteenth. From childhood we had cherished 
a vision of Venice and her viaduct, but we never 
thought of them as resting on anything material — 
they were like the ISTew Jerusalem and Jacob's 
ladder, such stuff as dreams are made of. And all 
these years we had been looking forward to the 
day when we might dream ourselves across tlie 
sleepy lagoons into the mystic city. How we pored 
over "Stones of Venice," as John Ruskin bore us on 
the wings of imagination through the shadowy 
aisles of St. Mark's Rest and down the long corri- 
dors where the spirits of the Doges linger. What 
happy hours we spent with Mr. Howells, studying 
the wonderful lights and shades of "Venetian Life." 
With Hopkinson Smith we had glided on noiseless 
oar through entrancing "Gondola Days." With 
Mrs. Oliphant we had drifted back to those distant 
times when "The Makers of Venice" were building 
up here on the shifting shoals of the Adriatic a 



96 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

mighty city. We had lived in Venice by anticipa- 
tion, and got, so to speak, a bowing acquaintance 
with her great men and their great deeds. But we 
felt there was something wanting, for all the de- 
scriptions of gifted pen. Our Venice lacked that 
softness and color and glow and individuality which 
come only to him who looks upon her with his own 
eyes, who has seen the sun rise beyond the bay and 
set beneath a lambent sky across the still lagoons, 
who has watched the play of color on the marbles of 
St. Mark's and the Doges' Palace, who has seen the 
fishing boats turn home at evening through an 
amber sea, who has mingled with the throng upon 
the Piazza under a starlit sky, and drifted by night 
through shadowy canals. The Venice of books is 
like one of Turner's pictures with the colors left 
out. All these years we had been looking at 
reprints and sketches. I^ow we had come to see the 
original in its subtle beauty. 

With what eager feet we stepped from the train 
and made our way through the crowd of the great 
station. A dash of disappointment cooled our ardor 
as a liveried collector, fresh from the twentieth 
century, demanded our tickets at the gate, and the 
same clamorous crowd of porters besieged us. 
Finally^ with what dampened expectations we had 
broken through their ranks, and were in the open 
air. It was night. The stars twinkled overhead, 
and before us halo-circled lights struggled through 
the darkness, some of them dancing hither and 
thither like will-o'-the-wisps. We paused and put 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 97 

our luggage down on the pavement in bewilder- 
ment. Where was the city? It was so still out 
there in the semi-darkness. 'No roll of carriages 
nor rush of electric cars nor clash of iron hoofs upon 
the stone; only a noise out of the night as of the lazy 
lapping of water. Our very nostrils got wind of a 
new experience, for the damp air was laden with the 
unmistakable odor of ebb-tides and salt and seaweed. 
When our eyes were adjusted to the dark, we found 
ourselves at the top of a long terrace of stone steps, 
on the lowest of which water was washing, and 
through the gloom we made out dimly the silhou- 
ettes of gondolas riding like black swans upon the 
soft-heaving water. One of them glided noiselessly 
to the landing. We stepped into its yielding 
bottom, while an aged oarsman with hooked stick 
steadied the light craft to our service, holding out 
his weather-beaten hat for a soldo. Our gondolier, 
erect in the darkness behind us, bent to his oar. 
The blade dipped noiselessly into the black water. 
And we were taking our first gondola ride in 
Venice. 

Up the Grand Canal — the city's Broadway — ^we 
passed, through a multitude of boats coming and 
going as silently as our own. Marble palaces looked 
down upon us from either side, the pallor of their 
aged faces heightened by the soft light of the stars. 
We were drifting through spirit-land, and these 
were but the spectres of palaces, haunted by spirits 
of the long-departed. Under the spell of Venice 
7 



98 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

we had spanned the gulf of centuries. Here was 
the Ca' d'Oro; and farther on the palaces of the 
Contarini and Foscari, Doges of Venice in their day. 
What intrigues were hatched behind those marble 
doors ! What joys and sorrows found entrance 
there ! For every lover of Venice knows the tragic 
story of Doge Foscari, who, compelled by the Coun- 
cil to pronounce sentence of banishment on his own 
son, was found guilty of imbecility for shedding 
tears, and deposed from his high office. Here in 
this palace by the Grand Canal he died of broken 
heart as the bells of San Marco announced the elec- 
tion of his successor. And well-nigh every palace 
beside these waters could tell its tragic story, were 
the mute mouths of its marble statues gifted with 
speech. 

We passed under the wide span of the famous 
Rialto, about which linger the ghosts of Shylock and 
Portia, Antonio and his friend Bassanio. Then 
suddenly the prow of our gondola turned about the 
corner of an ancient palace, and we were lost in the 
mazes of the side canals. Through the shadows of 
houses that crowd the water-way, and under the 
spectral arch of many a connecting bridge, we 
glided. The swish of the gondolier's oar and the 
lapping of water against walls and marble steps 
served but to intensify the silence, which was 
broken anon by the warning cry of the dusky oars- 
man as he bent his prow about a corner or greeted a 
fellow spectre on the noiseless way. And when we 
had slipped through many a shadowy, spirit-haunted 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 99 

aisle, our Charon brought his boat to rest beside the 
Stygian shore, and we went up the damp stone steps 
to dwell for a season in the city of our dreams. 

Our moderate purse had forced us to turn from 
the great hotels for lodging more in keeping with 
our means — fortunately the delights of Venice do 
not lie behind gilded doors. With the help of 
Baedeker we had chosen the Deutsches Heim as a 
moderate home, and had engaged our lodging in ad- 
vance. The entrance, in a narrow way, is not 
promising, and the winding three-story flight of 
steps is even less so. But we were up at last, our 
gondolier laboring after us with the luggage. Our 
rooms were ready, and we were ready for our 
rooms — it was just past noon when our train left 
Florence, and the way had been fatiguing, for all its 
beauty and interest. We entered and made a hasty 
survey of our quarters. The tiled floor was polished. 
The snowy bed was inviting with its canopy net — 
and we were tempted to turn in at once, reserving 
for the morrow any further acquaintance with the 
island city. But a light through the curtained 
windows attracted our attention, and we walked 
across the room to take a peep from this eyrie out- 
look. We put aside the curtains — and instantly 
fatigue was forgotten. Before us lay altogether the 
loveliest sight of Europe. The window opened 
upon a balcony just beside the clock-tower of St. 
Mark's. Before us, its angel-guarded arches on a 
level with our windows, was the Church of San 
Marco, touched into peculiar beauty at this hour by 

LOFCi 



100 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

the mingled starlight and street-light, a forest of 
graceful columns lifting upon their carved capitals 
wave on wave of arches, from which the saints in 
purest marble look down, and every wave inlaid 
Avith mosaics of inexpressible beauty. Beyond the 
church we caught first sight of the Doges' Palace, 
its facade of marvelous beauty reflecting in soft 
tones the light from the square below. And 
farther yet, at the very bottom of the Piazzetta, two 
columns stood up against the background of night, 
on the capitals of which the winged lion of St. 
Mark's and Saint Theodore stand guard at the gate- 
way of Venice. Out between these gateless posts 
we caught sight of shimmering waters and gondolas 
coming and going. Beneath us was the Piazza of 
St. Mark's, brilliant with a thousand lights and ani- 
mate with a vast throng of people, who massed 
about the band stand, or promenaded under the 
colonnades, or regaled themselves at the sea of 
tables before the restaurants, or joined the tide of 
the Piazzetta. And around the festive scene the 
facades of marble palaces, their lights and shadows 
so softened by night as to make them seem pictures 
painted on canvas walls. 

Making a hasty toilet, we went do"wn to dip our 
first taste of Venetian life from high tide of an 
evening on St. Mark's Square. "We fell into the 
circling current and drifted about the Piazza to the 
music of a real Italian band. Dark-haired sig- 
norinas looked out from under their lashes at us in 
passing, and mademoiselles from beyond the Alps 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 101 

coquetted with gaily uniformed officers in the free- 
dom of the open air. It was a cosmopolitan crowd. 
'Now a group passed talking in true American, and 
now one speaking the German tongue. Greeks 
were mingled with the throng, and dusky orientals 
from the farther shores. Sailors too, whose ships 
had put in here from the four corners of the globe. 
We took seats at one of the tables before 
Florian's — the Delmonico of Venice — and gave our 
orders to the immaculate waiter, who speaks as 
many tongues as he has fingers on a hand. While 
we supped under a full night of stars, the gay 
throng surged back and forth around us, and the air 
was tremulous with music. This then was Ven- 
ice — the romantic city, the dolce far niente Venice 
of our dreams. Only, the half had never been told. 
Time sped unheeded in this midsummer night's 
dream, till the two bronze giants of the clock-tower 
proclaimed the midnight hour. The crowd ebbed 
out of the Piazza, and we climbed to our rooms to 
dream over again these first hours of our stay in 
Venice. 

The next morning we were awakened by these 
same giants, just as the level rays of the sun were 
touching into fire the gilded globes on the pinnacles 
of St. Mark's and kissing the marble lips of the 
angels. We went down to take an early bath in the 
soft air of this quasi-fairyland. The square was 
almost deserted. On the Piazzetta under the 
shadow of the Doges' Palace an artist was trying to 
catch on canvas the sunrise tints of Venice, while 



102 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

a group of ragamuffins looked over Ms shoulder. 
By tlie flagstaffs some tourists were feeding the 
pigeons, which fluttered about the heads of their 
passing patrons, or swept like an ashen cloud down 
the broad expanse of the deserted square, or circled 
in the sunlight about the pinnacles of the church, 
or paused for a moment among the arches to preen 
their iridescent plumage. The old vender of pop- 
corn, as constant in his place as the bronze pedestals 
of the flag-staffs and almost as ancient of mien, sat 
with his basket of cornucopias ready to serve us as 
long as our soldos and the appetites of the feathered 
throng held out. Down beyond the columns of the 
Piazzetta a few gondolas lay at their moorings, their 
OAvners lounging on the quay or gossiping in groups 
under the noble arches of the Liberia Vecchia. 

But we turned from these to that central stone of 
Venice, St. Mark's, rising in a vision of beauty out 
of the level pavement of the square^ its multitudi- 
nous tints of marble and porphyry and serpentine 
mingling in the soft light of morning with the rich 
colors of its mosaics; its arches mounting above 
each other wave on wave; its four Greek horses 
over the central portal, their necks arched in the 
pride of strength and their nostrils distended; above 
on a star-spangled field of blue the winged lion of 
St. Mark — all this wealth of color and form framed 
in by a filagree of palm-leaves and lilies and the 
bending forms of angels; and over all, lifted high 
against the azure background of sky, St. Mark him- 
self, the aureole of apotheosis about his brow. 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 103 

As we passed into the church — for now its bronze 
portals were thrown open to the light of a new day 
and to the morning worshiper — ^we read in illumi- 
nated story in mosaics of the alcove arches the tra- 
dition of St. Mark, how his body was rescued by 
miracle from the land of the infidels, brought in 
triumph across the sea, and received by worshipful 
Venetians into their own city with solemn pageant. 
Having got past the portal and the historic spot 
where some seven centuries and more ago the fierce 
Barbarossa was reconciled to the Pope kneeling here 
upon the cold stones of St. Mark's rest, and our eyes 
having become adjusted to the ^^dim, religious light'' 
of the interior, we forgot the broken tiling of the 
floor and the chilly air, in contemplation of the vision 
of loveliness which dawned out of the semi-twilight. 
Above there rose in mingled grace and strength 
the vaults and arches and domes, a marvel of ham- 
mered gold, for the ceiling of the cathedral is in- 
laid with a solid mosaic of yellow glass. And into 
this field of gold are wrought in mosaics of black 
fragments of the sacred story, — ^not words, for this 
work was done before the days of Gutenberg and 
the printed page, but pictures, — a vast illuminated 
manuscript which all could read, spread above the 
worshiper. Here is the fourth chapter of Matthew, 
the forty days in the wilderness, — the devil offering 
stones to be made bread, the pinnacle of the temple, 
the exceeding high mountain with the kingdoms of 
the world, and after that the devil fleeing and angels 
descending out of the golden sky. What child could 



104 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

not read in this wonderful picture-book the oft-told 
story, while its mother bowed at the altar and 
counted her rosary. Yonder, forming another line 
of the illuminated page, is the triumphal entry into 
Jerusalem, the Master upon the ass's colt, the people 
spreading their garments in the way, while those 
who follow and those who surge out of the city gates 
cry hosanna ! — and the Pharisees look on with scowl- 
ing faces. So, too, are written here the stories of 
the Old Testament, the tablets of stone, the offering 
of Abraham, the wrestling of Jacob, and the rest. 

In and out beneath this intricate beauty the mod- 
ern Venetian passes to his devotions, bows before 
the altar all unconscious of this ^'holiness of 
beauty," counts his rosary, murmurs his pater-nos- 
ters, joins in the chanted Latin of the priests, and 
when he has touched his fingers in the font, passes 
out to a life as empty as his prayers. While we 
lingered in the shadow of the arches an unkempt 
woman entered, knelt upon the naked stone, and 
covering her disheveled head mth her dirty shawl, 
sought absolution for her sins. And when she had 
dropped her copper coin into the treasury, she kissed 
the foot of the bronze Christ, and her babe beside 
her was lifted to dip its finger in the purifying 
water and touch its lips to the common crucifijx. 
The next moment they were lounging about the 
pedestals of the marble columns without the door, 
waiting to catch a chance centesimo. The tourist 
with his red Baedeker passed unchallenged between 
the worshiper and the altar; yea, for the compensa- 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 105 

tion of half a lira he could enter the very holy of 
holies. Guides from the square besieged us here in 
the sanctuary, and offered to describe in an hour all 
this art in stone and mosaic and pigment which for 
six centuries the greatest masters had brought as 
offerings to the altar of the church. How pitiful it 
is ! The church which was built to consecrate the 
resting-place of St. Mark, and upon which were lav- 
ished centuries of devoted talent and wealth, is no 
longer a place of worship, save to the few, but sim- 
ply a museum of mosaics. 

Beside San Marco stands the Ducal Palace, where 
in the days of republican Venice the doge resided 
and the Councils of State were held — the symbols 
of temporal and spiritual power side by side here 
on the city's square. We passed under the storied 
arcades of sculptured marble, entered the gate beau- 
tiful, the Porta della Carta, traversed the inner 
court, and ascended the Scala dei Giganti, ^^the 
finest open staircase in the world." At the head of 
these stairs the doges were crowned in the presence 
of the multitude assembled on the pavement below; 
and here, according to tradition, upon this corona- 
tion spot. Doge Faliero lost his head at the hands of 
this same people when his treason had been uncov- 
ered. We mounted the Golden Stair, and were in 
the council chambers of the ancient republic. Here 
is the Sala del Collegio, where diplomats of foreign 
powers were presented to the Doge. Here is the 
Senate Chamber, where the "Council of Kings" was 
wont to assemble for its deliberations. And near by 



106 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

is the Chamber of the Council of Ten, that terrible 
decemvirate, that Committee of Public Safety, who 
"held authority over the other councils, and pri- 
vately investigated and punished all state crimes" — 
their methods hinted at by the Bocca di Leone^ the 
Lion's Mouth in the wall, a sort of secret letter-box, 
through whose narrow mouth slipped the fate of 
many an unsuspecting citizen while he slept. What 
dark deeds were wrought here in the name of jus- 
tice and the public weal ! If you have a taste for un- 
canny things, you may see the suffocating cells un- 
der the leaden roof where political prisoners were 
held, and in the niche of a wall the executioner's 
block, and the Bridge of Sighs leading to the damp, 
evil-smelling, rayless cells beyond, where the death 
watch was kept till the silent waters of the canal 
should close over the last act of the tragedy. 

The lover of Venice can but compare her present 
with her departed greatness. It is as if the Amazon 
had turned back to her dolls. Once she sat here the 
crowned queen of the Adriatic. Her fleets of mer- 
chantmen whitened the inland sea and found their 
way to the farthest haven. Her merchants were 
princes — captains of industry in their day. She con- 
trolled the trade of the Indies. Her ships of war 
were a power on the Mediterranean and a warning to 
her rivals. Her influence was felt throughout the 
then western world. 

It was a citizen of Venice, Marco Polo, who be- 
came the first explorer. CatchiQg the spirit of his 
city, he set out across the uncharted continent of 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 107 

Asia, traveled the fabled realm of the great Khan, 
and returned after many years to excite the minds 
of his countrymen with those tales of marvel which 
win our hearts to this latest day. It was this same 
citizen of Venice who brought back to the western 
world some six hundred years ago first vague news 
of islands lying in the shoreless waters beyond the 
land of the Mogul — the same islands that have 
troubled Russia so grievously since. What a won- 
derful story-teller this Marco must have been, and 
how eagerly the Venetian youth must have gath- 
ered about him to hear account of his wanderings — 
for these were days when the earth was new. Look- 
ing back from our age of globe-trotters, one almost 
envies Marco and his fellows that flush of novelty 
that made the stories glow. For what with kodak 
and tourist chronicle the jungles of Africa, the 
islands of the sea, and even the snow fields about 
the poles have become commonplace. 

But the sun of Venetian supremacy has long since 
set. She thinks no more of war galleys, except on 
the day of Italian assizes. Her fleets of trade have 
sailed over the horizon rim for the last time. Her 
merchant princes have given place to the keepers of 
shops who offer mosaics and coral beads and post- 
cards to the tourist. The descendants of Marco Polo 
are content to linger about the Piazza or float in the 
sluggish lagoons. Erom a world power Venice has 
become a dreamy Italian city. 

But for all her decadence in the world of com- 
merce and diplomacy, the Island City still wields a 



108 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

power iiiiiqiie among the cities of tlie earth. She 
holds a place undisputed in the realm of the beauti- 
ful. And if you can claim citizenship in that realm, 
you may still feel the sway of her sceptre. When 
you have surrendered yourself to the loveliness of 
St. Mark's and the Doges' Palace, when you have 
reveled away many a morning there among marbles 
and mosaics and immortal paintings — some day you 
may take gondola at the foot of the Piazzetta for a 
visit to other shrines. Gliding across the sunlit 
water, the oar of your gondolier dripping liquid 
diamonds at every stroke, you turn into the mouth 
of the Grand Canal, pass the noble Church of the 
Salute, and touch the western bank where the new 
iron bridge spans the channel. Pass through the 
group of children that are playing on the open 
space, decline the service of guides, and enter the 
building on the farther side. It is the Academy of 
Fine Arts. Mount the double staircase that leads 
up from the entrance, and you are in one of the 
great galleries of mediaeval art. Dowti the long 
corridor you catch sight of Titian's famous "As- 
sumption," the Virgin borne up on a cloud of cher- 
ubs, while the apostles look on in adoration. And 
when you, too, have paid your homage, you may 
pass on to Veronese's "Supper in the House of Levi" 
and such works of Tintoretto and Carpaccio and 
the rest as may be best to your liking, not forget- 
ting the "Legend of Saint Ursula." And when you 
have wandered at will through corridors and cabi- 
nets full of paintings from a hundred gifted hands 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 109 

and have come to ^^Tlie Presentation of the Virgin," 
which Ruskin characterizes as ^^simply the most 
stnpid and uninteresting picture ever painted by 
Titian/' you may pass out through a side door to 
your gondola. And now, if you are not already 
weary with looking at pictures, have your oarsman 
row you down the Canal past the palace where Rob- 
ert Browning died — you will know it by the tablet 
to his memory — and through the side canal to the 
Scuola di San Rocco, ^^one of the three most pre- 
cious buildings in Italy," according to Ruskin. It is 
the sanctuary of Tintoretto, where ^^the little dyer," 
as he was called in derision of his father's trade, 
wrought for eighteen years, leaving behind him 
pictures whose fame was to be fadeless. There 
you will find the "Annunciation" and the "Cruci- 
fixion" — among the greatest of all art — and with 
them many other works from the same brush, — 
hanging there in the dim light of the great halls, 
their colors darkened by time and the damp touch 
of the Venetian air, but their beauty and power 
still unimpaired. You will linger long before 
them there in the cool and quiet of Tintoretto's 
retreat, to study the startled expression of the Vir- 
gin as the awful announcement of her maternity is 
m.ade to her by the angel messenger, to contemplate 
the manifold pictures which the artist has blended 
into his story of the Crucifixion. And when you have 
left San Rocco with a promise to come back again, 
you may drift at hazard through the cross canals, 
visiting any of the ninety-nine churches of Venice 



110 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

that lie along the way, for every church of the Ve- 
netian is a gallery of art. 

Thus the days passed for us in the Island City 
like the shifting scenes of a dream. We fell under 
the dolce far niente spell of the city, and gave our- 
selves up for hours together to idle dreaming while 
the boatman drove his craft leisurely through the 
lights and shadows of the sluggish water-ways. 
While we lingered, the city put on her gala dress in 
honor of the Festa del Redentore, which occurs on 
the third Sunday in July. From lagoon and main- 
land visitors poured in to be present at the great 
annual festival. On Saturday evening preceding 
the religious observance there was to be a secular 
demonstration before the Church of the Redeemer 
on the broad Guidecca Canal which separates the 
island of that name from the city. A bridge of 
boats had been thrown across the canal for the con- 
venience of pedestrians, and over it as the evening 
drew on a ceaseless stream of pleasure-seekers 
poured back and forth between the Piazza and the 
island. The water was alive with gondolas. When 
the day had gone out in the west, and only the stars 
and the rising moon shed their light upon the festal 
scene, we went doAvn to the foot of the Piazzetta, en- 
gaged the service of a stalwart young gondolier for 
the evening, and set out across the bay to the festal 
waters. It was a scene fit for Romeo and Juliet. 
You would have thought a myriad iridescent fire- 
flies were swarming in the summer night as the gon- 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 111 

dolas glided through the gloom, their paper lanterns 
dancing minuets with their reflection on the waters. 
Every boat was headed toward one central point, the 
brilliant Guidecca shore which gleamed through the 
darkness across the star-spangled bay. The still 
night air trembled with the ring of laughter and 
with songs from various tongues. As we drew near 
the illuminated shore we could make out words and 
symbols written in points of light against the back- 
ground of darkness. Then we were in the midst of 
the festal scene. Craft of every land that could be 
propelled by oar was there, and every one filled to 
the gunwale with exuberant humanity. Here was 
a family that had brought refreshments, and with 
some friends was having a house party under the 
open sky. Over yonder were gaily uniformed naval 
officers come from the battleship at anchor in the 
harbor. There was a crowd of bourgeois, men and 
women, come from the lagoons in a clumsy old scow 
of a boat, but just as happy as that select company 
come from the Grand Canal with their own liveried 
gondolier. In another boat a lover was basking in 
the smiles of his dulcinea. And a bevy of fair 
daughters of Columbia were reclining in their gon- 
dola under the soft light of the lanterns. A great 
float lit with a thousand tapers served as band-stand, 
and from it strains of music were wafted over the 
water. Suddenly in the midst of this merriment a 
shout went up as a rocket shot across the sky. "With 
one impulse every boat surged that way. Then for 
the space of half an hour the sky was ablaze with 



112 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

pyroteclmic display, as if Vulcan had thrown against 
the walls of heaven all the garnered sparks of his 
anvil in challenge to Jove. Then the stars shone 
down unrivaled once more, the band played out its 
repertoire, and the throng melted away on the 
waters. 

But time passes, even in dreamy Venice, and the 
hour of our departure was finally at hand. We 
looked out upon St. Mark's and the Piazza for the 
last time as the pigeons were flying down to their 
morning meal and the level sun was lighting up 
palace and pinnacle. Once more we passed down 
the Grand Canal. As our train ran out upon the 
long viaduct the white gulls at rest on the still la- 
goon seemed suspended between two Italian skies. 
Slowly the city melted back into the morning mists, 
and the Venice of our dreams had become the 
Venice of memory. 



CHAPTEK VIII 



TO THE TOP OF THE WORLD 



On boarding the train at Venice, we found the 
second-class compartments, for which our tickets 
called, all occupied. We took seats therefore in a 
first-class compartment till our conductor should 
come along to help us out. He did not put in his 
appearance for more than an hour, and then in- 
sisted on making us pay extra for first-class accom- 
modation. This we flatly refused to do, despite the 
swelling dignity of the uniform — it was no fault of 
ours, we had asked for second-class, and could not 
find it. There is nothing quite equal to the arro- 
gant superiority of a European official, unless it be 
the fabled jackdaw in peacock feathers. He fumed, 
and we reiterated — all in French, except for the 
American and Italian which boiled over now and 
then in the course of controversy from excess of es- 
caping steam. Not a soldo would we pay. "What ! 
withstand the Italian railroad in the person of its 
bedizened official ! He would keep our tickets then. 
'Now, that would seem to an American the one thing 
he ought to do under any circumstance. But in 
Europe the conductor only examines the tickets; 
they are taken up by the guard at the station where 
you alight. It was important, therefore, for us to 
8 



114 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

have the tickets in order to get through the station 
ar Milan. We finally agreed to leave the matter to 
the officials in that city. On reaching there, we 
v^ent to the office of claims in the great station — the 
American and the conductor. A man in uniform 
mostly red looked over the desk as the conductor 
gave his version of the affair, with interpolations 
from the American by way of punctuation. The 
official then asked if we refused to pay. To which 
we replied in the affirmative. "Well," said he, "you 
will have to give your name to the police, and the 
Italian Government will sue you through its consul 
in America.'' That was unexpected fame, and 
cheaply bought at that. To be sued by a whole gov- 
ernment, and for two dollars ! We readily assented 
to that way of adjusting the difficulty, and the 
blanks and police officer were forthcoming. Then 
began the amusing part. The officer wanted to 
know where and when we were born, what our 
father's name was, where he resided, where we our- 
selves were when we were at home. Our mind 
lapsed into examinations for life insurance, and we 
offered to tell what our grandparents died of, and 
how often we had had the measles ; but those data did 
not seem essential to the prospective suit. When 
the blanks had been properly filled and witnebsed, we 
received the tickets, and went on our way rejoicing. 
So the tedium of travel is relieved by lively experi- 
ences of the way. 

The traveler stops at Milan for two things at 
least — Da Vinci's "Last Supper" and the Cathe- 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 115 

dral — two masterpieces of art in this, the most com- 
mercial Italian city. Several centuries ago, while 
Columbus was saiKng uncharted seas, Leonardo da 
Vinci tarried a season here in the Lombard capital 
under the tutelage of the Duke of Milan, and to 
while away his time when not playing the flute at 
court, he painted a picture for the Dominican monks 
in the refectory of the little church, Santa Maria 
delle Gracie. Time and the dampness of the wall 
have almost obliterated the painter's work; yet 
thousands turn aside yearly from the tourist tide to 
pay their respects here to the fading masterpiece. 

The Cathedral is one of the great churches of the 
world. It is built of marble, roof and all, and 
adorned with more than two thousand marble stat- 
ues. The stone filagree work of the ceiling resem- 
bles creamy lace as you view it from the nave of the 
church. The largest stained glass windows in the 
world are here, three of them, some sixty by twenty- 
five feet. Each of them is divided into one hundred 
and eight panels, every panel a picture in light from 
the Bible — three hundred and twenty-four in all, 
beginning with the dividing of light from darkness 
and ending with the Ascension. The spectator 
standing in the subdued light of the great church, 
and looking up as the sunlight from without makes 
them luminous, sees the sacred story unfolded upon 
an illuminated scroll. 

Having paid our devotions at these two shrines, 
and gotten a bird's-eye view of the city, we set out by 
early train for the top of the world. The St. 



116 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

Gothard road lays claim to some of the most beauti- 
ful scenery of Europe, and some of the grandest. 
It traverses the Piedmont, skirts Lake Como, runs 
along the shores of Lugano lying like a mirror in 
the mountains, and boldly plunges into the great 
hills of Switzerland. It curves and recurves upon 
itself as it climbs the rugged mountain sides, till 
you can see it lying below you like the trail of a 
great serpent. Then it plunges into the very bowels 
of the granite hills. The longest tunnel in the 
world, with one exception, is on this road, where it 
passes under the St. Gothard Mountain, the back- 
bone of the Lepontine Alps. 

All the forenoon we climbed the southern slopes, 
winding along the precipitous flanks of the giant 
hills, higher and higher above the crystal waters of 
the Ticino, which leaped and foamed among the 
boulders on its way to the Italian lakes. Steadfastly 
the road clung to the valley of the little river. Now 
and then we caught sight of snow-fields lying about 
the upper heights, and silver ribbons of water hang- 
ing from precipices told of melting glaciers in the 
fastnesses beyond. Over river and waterfall and 
snow-crowned height poured the sunshine of a per- 
fect day. At noon we sat down to lunch in the pala- 
tial dining-car, with this changing panorama of min- 
gled beauty and grandeur passing before our win- 
dows. But just as lunch was served the train 
plunged into the long timnel. Suddenly night had 
descended upon us, and we were supping under elec- 
tric lights. Think of eating with a mile of granite 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 117 

mountain over your head. And what would the 
gnomes and elfs have thought of such intrusion — if 
thej had not long since been frightened away by the 
thunder of dynamite. 

It was fair and warm when we entered the moun- 
tain on the southern side. When we came out on 
the northern slope of the great watershed eight miles 
beyond, it was cold and stormy. However, the 
clouds broke away as we followed the winding Reuss. 
And as we glided down toward the Swiss lakes the 
sun lit up the distant mountain tops. We passed the 
village of Altorf, where legend says Tell shot the 
apple from his boy's head, and came to Eluellen by 
the side of Lake Lucerne, where a steamer was wait- 
ing to take us to the farther end of the lake, thirty 
miles away. 

Lake Lucerne nestles in the lap of the Bernese 
Oberland, fourteen hundred feet above the sea, its 
waters clear as crystal, fed by glaciers and melting 
snows. It is in every sense the heart of Switzerland. 
About it is gathered the wealth of her legend. It 
was upon its shores and waves that William Tell 
played his part in freeing the land from tyranny — 
and to-day you may see upon its southern shore the 
traditional Rutli where his comrades gathered by 
night for covenant. It was its pleasant waters that 
attracted ancient immigrants from out the sterile 
north and induced them to take habitation in these 
mountain valleys. To the north and west of it the 
verdant hills melt away into fertile plains, while to 



118 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

the south and east tower, rim above rim, the giants 
of the Alps. 

It was in Lucerne, the busy little city at the west 
end of the lake, that we established headquarters. 
About its streets and on the waters of the lake we 
spent our first days. We saw Thorwaldsen's famous 
"Lion of Lucerne." We visited the Glacier Garden, 
and saw the "glacier mills,'' huge pot-like holes some 
ten or twenty feet across and as many deep, bored 
into the solid rock during the age of ice. We passed 
across the quaint old covered bridge, and studied 
the still quainter paintings in its gabled roof. We 
watched the swans and fish sporting where the 
Keuss rushes in limpid current on its way to the 
Ehine. We mingled Avith the cosmopolitan crowd 
come hither from the ends of the earth for a sum- 
mer holiday. 

But the mountains wooed us, rising so majestic 
across the lake, and at last we could resist them no 
longer. Taking boat one morning at the quay, we 
steamed out, and zigzagging from wharf to wharf 
for tourist trafiic, came finally to shore where the 
Aar runs down from the Sarner See to empty its 
waters into the central lake. From this point one of 
the most noted cogwheel roads in Switzerland leads 
to the top of Mount Pilatus, seven thousand feet 
above the sea. It is a marvel of engineering. Into 
a bed of solid stone masonry the rails are anchored 
with bolts of iron. Along the middle of the track 
runs the cog-rail of wrought steel, the gradient of 
which reaches forty-eight in places, and nowhere 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 119 

sinks below nineteen degrees. Going up is almost 
like climbing a rope hand over band. Across gorges, 
through tunnels, and along the edge of dizzy preci- 
pices the road runs with the same indifference, and 
scales the impregnable walls of the mountain with 
amazing confidence. 

On this road we took the last stage of our journey 
"to the top of the world." In ascending Pilatus 
one traverses in two hours as many zones as would 
be crossed in going from our sunny southern savan- 
nahs to Arctic snows. We started in a semi-tropical 
region where the vegetation in summer is luxurious. 
On the moist lower slopes elder blossoms drooped 
their heavy heads, dainty blue-bells swung lightly 
in the breeze, the fireweed hung out its torch by the 
wayside, the wild touch-me-not nodded to the pass- 
er-by, and the yellow aster made a star-spangled 
banner of the mountain side. The birch and the 
maple lifted their crowns against the sky. But as 
we climbed they all seemed to weary and drop be- 
hind, yielding place to the hardy ox-eye daisy and 
common clover and the red cedar. These, too, gave 
out in their turn, and we came to where the pointed 
fir droops its lichen-covered branches against the 
weight of winter snows. These hardy children of 
the upper slopes look like an army of soldiers as- 
saulting a stronghold. Up the side of the mountain 
they scramble, each one for himself, till they come 
to a halt on the firing line where the avalanches 
dispute the way. It is pathetic to see the remnant 
of the front line holding their ground against all 



120 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

odds, like the old guard, scarred and depleted, but 
unconquered still. When this battlefield was passed 
we were in the undisputed realm of the snow. 
Above us loomed the granite summit of the moun- 
tain, bare as when it was first lifted out of the 
bowels of the earth. Only here and there in the 
sheltered places stunted cedars clung to the earth 
like vines, conquered doubtless by the weight of 
snow which lies upon them through the Alpine win- 
ter. And where the melting snows had brought 
down a deposit of soil, there were plots of grass 
sprinkled with dwarf flowers. 

The top of Pilatus offers perhaps the finest pan- 
orama of the Alps to be seen from any accessible 
spot. It was late afternoon when we reached the 
hotel, which sits, so to speak^ in the saddle of the 
mountain-top. Having secured rooms, we made 
haste to climb the horn of the saddle, a peak of solid 
stone rising like a tower some two hundred feet 
above the final ridge. Above us then was a cloud- 
flecked sky, and beneath us lay the world. A sea of 
mountains rolled wave beyond wave to where snow- 
clad peaks rose out of the horizon mists. There were 
the Titlis and the Finsteraarhorn, the Wetterhorn 
and the Silberhorn, and in the midst of them the 
Jungfrau, majestic and radiant in her immaculate 
robe. Clouds drifted across the sky so that as we 
looked the great hills were now in sunshine and now 
in shadow. Through the telescope one could exam- 
ine at leisure the wonderful phenomena of the Alps. 
There, for instance, some thirty miles away, lay a 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 121 

great snowfield^ ending in a glacier below. Deep 
crevasses were clearly visible in the surface of the 
ice river, and from its lowest point a stream of 
water, white like milk, leaped down the mountain- 
side. Such is the birth of an Alpine river. The 
stream we were watching ran down to the Reuss, 
and into the Rhine, and on to the sea, to be taken to 
the clouds again. So Nature does her work, lifting 
up the waters, and pouring them upon the mountain- 
tops, till the hills shall be level with the plains. 
With poetic truth the laureate sang, 

"The moanings of the homeless sea, 
The sound of streams that swift or slow 
Draw down Aeonian hills, and sow 
The dust ot continents to be." 

The telescope showed us, too, avalanches of stone 
prized from their resting-place by the silent fingers 
of the frost, and sent rushing down the mountain. 
Eternal as the granite hills appear, they must finally 
yield to these slow forces. Already the work is far 
advanced in these newest mountains — for the Alps 
are young, their shoulders not yet stooped with the 
weight of years. Already about their feet is piled 
high the debris which has been chiseled from their 
crowns. Slowly the work goes on — you may stand all 
day without seeing so much as one stone prized from 
its resting-place. This is where a thousand years are 
as a day — and then a day as a thousand years when 
the avalanche descends. 

We watched the sunset from Pilatus. There can 
be few grander sights reserved for mortal eyes than 



122 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

sunset on a hundred miles of snowy mountains. 
Slowly tlie fiery disk sank behind the serrate hori- 
zon rim. Its rays lingered upon the summits long 
after the light had faded from the quiet valleys; 
but at last these, too, laid off their radiance, and 
sank back one by one into the arms of night, the 
drapery of their cloud-couch close drawn about 
them. When the light had faded from the moun- 
tains, we turned to watch the day go out in. the west. 
And when the last hem of his golden robe had swept 
through the portals where Hesperus stands guard, 
we wrapped our cloaks about us, and went down 
through the gathering gloom. But though the sun 
was gone from our eyes, we knew that he still shone 
upon our loved ones in western lands. So do love 
and friendship broaden the borders of our world. 

"The sun shall set, his light grow dim, 
And nevermore may rise for me; 
But some one that I love shall see 
Him flame above the eastern rim." 

We turned in early that night, despite the cheery 
fire that burned inviting in the roomy lobby hearth, 
for next morning w^e were to see sunrise from the 
top of the Alps. It seemed scarcely ten minutes af- 
ter we had fallen asleep when a great pounding on 
the door advised us that it was time to get up. The 
watch marked four. These mountains ought to be 
handled by some labor union. They are entirely un- 
reasonable in their demands upon old Sol, keeping 
him at work seventeen hours out of every twenty- 
four, Sundays included. But as no injunction could 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 123 

be gotten out just then to stay proceedingSp there 
was nothing to do but get up. We made a bold 
start, shivered in the chill twilight, and crawled 
back under cover. Those double blankets were as 
comfortable as on a December morning. But a 
printed placard on the wall requested the guests 
^^not to carry away the woolen bedclothes when 
viewing the sunrise," so we had the alternative of 
giving up the blankets or the sunrise. We had come 
all the way up the mountain to see the latter, so we 
made a partial toilet, buttoned our coats close about 
us, and ventured out. Some hundred persons were 
gathered on the summit, arrayed in all manner of 
garb, shawls, raincoats, overcoats, and blankets (pre- 
sumably their own). Some had foregone the morn- 
ing toilet, some were collarless, some hatless, all 
were shivering with cold. At last the great actor 
appeared upon the stage, and took up his daily role, 
all indifferent to this little audience that watched 
him from a far-away gallery. When the first act 
was over, we went down for refreshments. 

After breakfast we clambered down the moun- 
tain some three hundred feet below the hotel, and 
indulged in a game of snowball as a novel sport for 
July. Great banks of snow lay here in the gorges 
under the warm sun, the remnants of many a vdnter 
avalanche; while within a few feet the grass was 
green and carpeted with Alpine flowers. We 
counted eleven kinds of flowers in the space of a 
man's handkerchief, modest little blossoms, cling- 
ing close to the earth. While we gathered flowers 



124 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

hj the snoWj echoes of an Alp horn sounded across 
the valley, and from the grassy slopes below came 
the faint tinkling of bells like chimes from elfland. 

Climbing across the mountain-side, we came upon 
a typical mountaineer, blowing his long horn, the 
one we had heard from the flower beds below. How 
rich his German tongue was with local coloring — for 
you must know that German is the native speech of 
this region. He could roll an "r" all round the 
mountain, and his gutturals were marvels of vocal 
depth. He blew his horn till the echoes filled the 
gorges. 'No doubt he was a lineal descendant of the 
boy of the mountain to whom Mark Twain gave a 
franc for "yodling,'' and then another to stop. As 
we tarried by the bugler, two bright-eyed boys came 
round the cliff from nowhere, and entered the con- 
versation. On inquiry as to their health they as- 
sured us it was perfect, that folks lived over a hun- 
dred years here, in fact, some had to be thrown over 
the mountain-side to get them out of the way. They 
also informed us that in winter the people wrapped 
up in skins and went into dens like bears. They 
seemed to understand our humor, and always "went 
us one better." Evidently we were not the first 
tourists they had seen. But the day wore on, and 
we were due that night in Lucerne to witness the 
Schiller Eest, so we wished them pleasant dreams 
next winter, and left them in their cloud-canopied 
eyrie. 

From the summit of Pilatus we saw the distant 
snowfields and glaciers of the central Alps. A few 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 125 

days afterward we packed our knapsacks and set out 
to get acquainted with tliem face to face. The 
Oberland Eailway skirts the western shore of Lake 
Lucerne, passes the village of Alpnachstad nestling 
by the mountain foot, runs by the waters of the Sar- 
ner See^ and climbs the steep ascent of the Bernese 
Oberland. The curious little engine struggles pain- 
fully up the grades, pulling itself and its load along 
by means of cogs. The valley drops below you till 
the chalets look like tiny specks. Beside the track 
is a sheer precipice, and across the valley the moun- 
tain rises in a wall. But the valley itself is fertile 
and verdant where the waters have brought down 
the mountain-tops and spread them in life-giving 
soil. In these retired places the Alpine shepherd has 
found pasture for his flocks since first he claimed 
the mountains for his own, and here he lives con- 
tented under the shadow of the everlasting hills. 
His tiled-roof home, weighted with stones against 
the breath of winter blasts, forms a pretty contrast 
with the surrounding green. 

Slowly we crept up to the summit of the pass, and 
stopped at the little station of Brunig to wait for the 
second section of our train, which had been given to 
another engine at the foot of the last grade. These 
branch roads are never in a hurry. They run into 
a station up in the fastnesses, and stop for half an 
hour with no apparent reason. "Whether it is to af- 
ford the tourist opportunity to enjoy the scenery or 
the native a chance to enjoy his beer, we could never 
quite decide. Finally our conductor called out "all 



126 AVITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

aboard" in three languages, and we began the de- 
scent. Think of a conductor on a narrow gauge 
speaking three languages. But you will find hotel 
clerks and restaurant waiters all over the continent 
with a smattering of languages — enough to serve 
their purpose, if only they do not get off their beaten 
track. 

We passed down through a panorama of wonder- 
ful beauty, and came to the shore of Lake Brienz. 
A short ride across the lake and we were at Inter- 
laken, so named because it lies between two lakes. 
Interlaken subsists by virtue of the tourist. It is 
all hotels. We walked out from the boat through a 
double line of porters. The only two things Inter- 
laken has to offer are mountain air and a view. As 
we were all the picture of health, and as the clouds 
threatened to shut out the view, we planned a visit 
to the glacier. 

The road to Grindelwald is cogwheel a great part 
of the way. It runs up the gorge to where the 
Black Lachinen from the Wetterhorn joins the 
white Lachinen from the Jungf rau, takes the valley 
of the former, and climbs toward the great glacier 
that comes do^vn from the Schreckhoerner. It dodges 
into tunnels here to avoid the avalanche, and is but- 
tressed there against gravity. As we jolted along, a 
native got aboard and took seat near us. We gath- 
ered that he had traveled much — spent some months 
on an Ohio farm. AVhen asked why he had not re- 
mained in the 'New World, he pointed out of the win- 
dow and uttered the fine old Grerman word '^Heim- 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 127 

well." Outside, the cliff across the narrow valley 
rose like a wall for a thousand feet, hung with silver 
ribbons of falling water; and far above, when the 
cloud rifts let the eye pass through, were the peaks 
of eternal snow. We looked, and knew why it was 
that the Swiss lad had come away from the land of 
fortune. And you, too, reader, will know, if the 
memories of your childhood are hung with pictures 
of the great mountains. 

Arrived at Grindelwald, there were yet three 
miles of stony road between us and the foot of the 
glacier — and it was raining. We had an umbrella 
bought of a ISTeapolitan peddler one sunny day — a 
most unmanageable piece of property. AYhen it was 
down it refused to go up; and when it was up, it 
refused to come down. Then again it would take a 
sudden notion to shut up just when you were least 
suspecting, and descend upon you like an extin- 
guisher upon a candle. Determined to get the best 
of it, we prized it up, wedged it in position^ and went 
merrily on our way through the rain. But that um- 
brella had been dyed in black ink, most of which it 
succeeded in transferring to our clothes before we 
were aware of its dark design, l^evertheless, push- 
ing along on foot with what speed the way permit- 
ted, we came to the last chalet about one o'clock. 
In front of us, across the narrow valley, the ice 
river sloped up through the clouds to the snowfields 
that lie like ermine about the shoulders of the Horns 
of Terror. 

These frozen rivers move but slowly. Inch by 



128 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 

inch the ice is forced down the gorge by the weight 
of the snow above, and as it reaches the valley it 
melts, and the milky water flows away to the ocean, 
free once more after centuries of bondage. I^ot far 
from the lower terminus of the Grindelwald glacier 
i.- a large stone inscribed to the memory of a cer- 
tain Dr. Arnold Haller, who disappeared upon the 
glacier some twenty-five years ago. A^ few days 
after our visit the glacier yielded up a body that 
was said to be his. The young men who had seen 
him pass up the glacier were hoary with years when 
the ice gave him up again. 

And what mighty power there is in this creeping 
ice. Where it descends into the valley are hills of 
earth and stone, brought down from the heights and 
dumped across the valley. Whatever falls into its 
icy clutches must go with it, whether it be a thou- 
sand tons of stone or the frail body of some luckless 
climber. And the stones are turned to its service. 
They are the plows and planes with which it fash- 
ions and polishes its bed. Along the mountain- 
side where the glacier once moved, the living rock 
is worn as smooth as the surface of a polished floor, 
with here and there deep furrows, where the glacier 
has seized a boulder in its icy fingers and grooved 
the granite mountain. 

With the help of guide and rope and Alpine stock 
and ice-axe, we managed to make some headway 
upon the rugged back of the sluggish monster. In 
climbing we came to a ^%lacier mill." The men of 
the stone age must have gotten many a hint ivovx 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 129 

Mother !N'ature. She used one stone to polish another, 
and the primitive maiij passing that way, saw and ac- 
cepted. Hence the smooth stone age. Between the 
rough and the smooth stone — who can tell how many 
centuries of human life lie hidden. Then ^N^ature 
balanced one stone upon another, and pouring water 
on the balanced stones, turned it on its pivot; and 
behold ! the glacier mill — the first grist mill. 'Nsl- 
ture takes out no patents, so the aboriginal man car- 
ried away this suggestion too — luckily for us, who 
else might still be munching acorns in hollow trees. 
But it was as true in the glacial epoch as it is now, 
that for want of corn mill-stones will grind each 
other. And to-day you may find by the living gla- 
cier or in the track of glaciers long departed, wells 
sunk deep into the solid rock, where the turning 
stones have buried themselves. 

The formation of a glacier is worth notice in pass- 
ing. Though it is the terminus of a snowfield, it is 
itself transparent ice. At the foot of the Grinden- 
wald glacier is a grotto which enterprising natives 
dig into the ice every year for the delectation of 
the tourist and the filling of their own purses. You 
may penetrate the glacier thirty yards or more till 
the ice is a hundred feet thick overhead; yet so 
clear is it that you can read by the diffused sun- 
light from above. 'Nor is this a case of the icicle 
pendant from the snow-covered roof. The glacier 
is not melted snow refrozen. "We recall a laboratory 
experiment out of student days. An iron tube was 
9 



130 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

filled with snow, a plunger was inserted, struck a 
sharp blow with a hammer — and the result was a 
rod of transparent ice. But here again Mother Na- 
ture is the teacher. She fills a valley with snow, 
hits it in her titanic way with a thousand million 
tons of snow pressing steadily from above — and the 
result is a glacier of crystal ice. 

Hamerton has said that there are some things in 
nature of which no adequate conception can be got- 
ten without seeing them — notably the ocean, the 
desert, flowing lava, and flowing ice. And yet you 
do not see the ice flowing — only the marks of move- 
ment. Where the frozen river bends round the 
shoulder of a mountain or drops over a ledge, huge 
crevasses open in the ice. And from the banks like 
crevasses run out to the mid-stream, showing that in 
the frozen as well as in the fluid river the current 
lags along the shore. These crevasses make it ex- 
tremely hazardous for the climber. They are fre- 
quently bridged over and hidden by drifting snow, 
becoming then treacherous pitfalls for the unwary. 
And many a man and mountain creature, stepping 
unwittingly upon this bridge, has been buried in a 
frigid grave. 

For two hours we climbed across the broken gla- 
cier, along the brink of ice chasm, and over boulder- 
strewn moraine, till we stood where the Mettenberg 
divides the glacier, sending part of it do^vn the val- 
ley of the Wetterhorn and part by the foot of the 
Eiger. Before us the snowfield stretched up to the 
clouds that veiled the Peaks of Terror. Around us 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 131 

rose the sublimest mountains of the Oberland. Far 
down in the valley we caught glimpses of the habita- 
tions of men. About us was the silence that reigns 
where the eagle soars. While we rested, the sun 
broke through the mist for a moment, transforming 
the heights beyond into dazzling glory. And when 
the splendor had faded, we turned our faces toward 
the plains. 



CHAPTEE IX 

THE LAND OF THE KHINE 

"He who does not know his way to the sea should 
take a river for his guide/' said Plautus. And 
though he know his way ever so well, the traveler 
cannot do better than accept such guidance when he 
comes to the river Rhine. It will take him through 
some of Europe's most historic scenes; and if he 
can but understand its language, will tell him stories 
such as no cicerone ever dreamed. It is an ancient 
guide, and in its long career has served such trav- 
elers as Caesar and Charlemagne and Barbarossa and 
Gustavus Adolphus and Napoleon. By its side have 
wandered Schiller and Goethe and Heine and Mar- 
tin Luther. It was under its guidance the storied 
Siegfried set out in search of his bride in the mist- 
veiled days of the Mbelungenlied. Since the time 
when our ancient forefathers coming up the Danube 
valley, poured into the land of the Rhine, the river 
has played a conspicuous part in the affairs of men. 

In point of size the Rhine is the third river of 
Europe; but in wealth of history, legend, and scenic 
loveliness it is easily first. It flows out of the halo- 
circled hills of story, through the rugged mountains 
of history, across the far-stretching plains of the 
present. Its source is the top of the world, and its 
home is the ocean. It springs from under Alpine 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 133 

ice, and falls asleep in the warm meadows of the 
l^etherlands. 'No river in all the world has a 
more varied aspect or flows through more varied 
scenes. "As the Rhine flows/' said Lord Lytton, "so 
flows the national genius, by mountain and valley — ■ 
the wildest solitude, the sudden spires of ancient 
cities, the mouldering castle, the stately monastery, 
the humble cot; grandeur and homeliness^ history 
and superstition, truth and fable, succeeding one an- 
other so as to blend into a whole." But he who 
would hear the story of the famous river must stop 
his ears for a time to the tumult of modern life, and 
withdraw him from the rush of the tourist tide. 

And how much better it is to submit to the guid- 
ance of the river than to stem its current. Then you 
are at one with your guide, and it grows upon you as 
you go. It leads you subtly on through widening 
vistas from revelation to revelation. You ride 
through the river god's realm in his own triumphal 
car, while the nymphs and sprites keep you com- 
pany. There is ineffable lure in the rush of a 
river. It is significant that our own Father of 
Waters was first explored from its source to its 
mouth. And no doubt good Father Marquette and 
his adventurous countryman La Salle were led on to 
fame by the charm of the flowing river as well as by 
desire for discovery. Certainly romance will always 
picture them drifting down the gentle slope of the 
broad waters, past bosky Indian-haunted shores and 
through sunny savannahs. 

So we drifted down the course of Europe's most 



134 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

famous river, turning aside now and then for excur- 
sion into tlie neighboring hills. We saw its birth in 
the lap of the glacier, and watched the play of its 
waters in their infancy. We saw it again where it 
leaps over the Falls in exultant youth. Then again 
we saw it in the soberness of mid-career, bearing on 
its bosom the burdens of a people. And we watched 
it as with slow, majestic movement it swept down to 
its death in the ocean. And everywhere it is full of 
charm, whether it be rushing over the boulders at 
Schaffhausen, or breaking its way through the hills 
of the Mederwald, or flowing through the plains of 
the lowlands. 

We arrived in Schaffhausen one day at noon, come 
from the top of the world by way of Lucerne and 
Zurich. You stop here to see the Falls of the Rhine, 
which lie about a mile below the little town. We 
tcok lodging at one of the modest hotels, and had 
lunch before making explorations. As we sat at 
table, the proprietor^ with that fine courtesy which 
savored of the wayside inn, made his round through 
the dining-hall saluting his guests and inquiring af- 
ter their welfare. Luncheon over, we set out on a 
tour of the town through its quaint narrow streets, 
and soon came to the river. The current is swift as 
a mill-race here, on its way to the Falls; and the 
water is clear as crystal, filtered in the reservoir of 
Lake Constance. In mid-stream a bath-house has 
been erected by a swimming club, and as we came 
up a company of some hundred boys were preparing 
to take a plunge. It is an ideal place. The current 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 135 

offers just enough resistance for a trial of wind and 
muscle, while guards keep the swimmer from being 
swept down by the stream. The eye could follow 
every movement of the divers as they plunged into 
the depths of the river. 

We left the bathers to their sport, and took trol- 
ley for the Falls, which are the most pretentious in 
Europe. Their claim, however, must rest on beauty 
and not grandeur, for they are tame beside Magara. 
Our visit was timed for late afternoon, when the 
western sun should be on the face of the Falls. 
There are no rapids above, as at Magara; the river 
slips down the sloping channel almost like liquid 
glass, and then in three wild leaps clears the preci- 
pice, and falls into the basin seventy feet below, a 
hundred thousand cubic feet of foam flecked crystal 
every second. In midstream, on the very edge of the 
Falls, towers a huge rock, dividing the waters as 
they rush over the precipice; and on the top of it is 
an outlook for those who are bold enough to face the 
seething waters at the foot of the Falls. We en- 
gaged boat and oarsman, and pushed out into the 
whirlpool. The little "maid of the mist" was tossed 
on the churned waters like a storm-beaten leaf. The 
billows dashed over our heads, and fell into the 
water on the farther side. One false stroke of the 
oar might have set us at the mercy of the mad river. 
But thanks to a skilful oarsman and our stout water- 
proofs, we came safe to the foot of the rock. In a 
moment we were on its summit, with the river roar- 
ing around us and leaping down the cataract beneath 



136 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

our feet. We were completely hemmed in by the 
rushing water, here in the center of the Rhine Falls, 
our faces w^ashed by the spray which the plunging 
billows shook from their foamy manes, our ears 
deafened beyond all comprehension by the multi- 
tudinous noise of tumbling water. 

We leaned over the edge of the rock and watched 
the ever-changing phenomena. A column of mist 
stood up a hundred feet out of the whirlpool, and the 
sunbeams falling through it painted a rainbow upon 
the brow of the cataract, which lingered till the sun 
went down. There was a wonderful display of 
colors in the falling water as the day drew to its 
close — emerald and topaz and now and then a piece 
of the bow of Iris — such colors as you see on the 
brink of iSTiagara when the day is fair. One has a 
sort of sympathy here with the fabled countryman 
who wanted to wait till the river flowed past. You 
cannot resist the feeling that the current will run 
out, so great is the rush. But it goes on without 
abating. The river was rushing just as wildly when 
the men of the Stone Age speared trout at the foot 
of the Falls; and should another stone age round 
the cycle of human history, it will find the waters 
rushing. 

From Schaflhausen the Rhine runs due west as if 
bent on seeing Paris. But at Basel, seventy miles 
away, it suddenly decides to remain Teuton, and 
turning due north, starts on its first long stretch to 
the sea, gathering into its swelling bosom as it flows 
the waters of Alsace, Lorraine, and Baden. Basel 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 137 

and Strasburg are the most pretentious cities the 
Ehine can boast in this period of its youth, though 
almost every mile of its course is marked by some 
historic spot. 

But the traveler fain parts company with his 
guide now and then for a day, to wander at his own 
sweet will, with the understanding that they will 
meet again at some appointed place. And so we 
forewent the guidance of the river past these his- 
toric scenes, promising to keep it more faithful com- 
pany when we should meet again, and took train 
through the picturesque Black Forest. This is a 
great district of mountainous land lying here in the 
broad bend of the Bhine, covered for the most part 
with fir and cedar, whose evergreen foliage has no 
doubt given name to this region. The Black Forest 
is one of the most picturesque parts of the Father- 
land. Its mountains are just rugged enough to lend 
a sort of solemn beauty to the landscape, thereby of- 
fering a pleasant variation from the majestic moun- 
tains of the Oberland. Here mediaeval customs 
have survived, and in these hills you may drop back 
through the centuries as you mingle with a people 
into the channels of whose life the tide of modern 
times has scarcely yet begun to flow. The Emperor 
encourages the people to hold to the ways of their 
fathers and preserve the integrity of their provin- 
cial life. But the coming of the Black Forest Hall- 
way through the very heart of this region, and the 
inevitable advent of the tourist, are beginning al- 
ready to overcome even this influence; and the trav- 



138 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

eler of the next generation will look in vain for tlie 
quaint people of the Black Forest, even as the trav- 
eler of to-day looks in vain for William Tell and his 
cross-bow in the land beyond the Rhine. 

Our day's travel through this interesting region 
brought us to the famous town of Heidelberg^ sit- 
uated in the valley of the Neckar just above its junc- 
tion with the Rhine. In passing through the coun- 
try we often noticed towns lying apart from the line, 
and wondered at this apparent divorce of vil- 
lage and railroad, till we noticed that the towns were 
beside streams, and remembered that the people and 
the rivers of these ancient lands had entered into a 
trades-union long before the advent of Stephenson 
and his iron horse. In America the rivers were 
there, but the white man and the iron horse took 
possession of the country together. So the old and 
the new land vary in their features. 

Heidelberg was for five hundred years capital of 
the Palatinate of the Rhine, and as such figured 
prominently in the stormy story of the middle ages. 
The tide of war swept over it time and again with 
terrible devastation. It was besieged five times, 
plundered three times, and reduced to ashes twice. 
It is now a quiet provincial town in the duchy of 
Eaden, famed for its castle and its university. The 
latter is one of the oldest in Germany, having been 
founded in 1386, a hundred years before Columbus 
set sail. Its fame brings together every year stu- 
dents from all parts of the world here upon the 
banks of the I^eckar. They are conspicuous on the 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 139 

streets by virtue of their gay corps caps, and the 
sword marks on their faces, the precious trophies of 
duels. You may still witness this lingering vestige 
of a barbarous age if you are minded to walk across 
the river to the "Mensur,'' where the contests are 
held. The duel is entirely amicable, and without 
danger to life. Vital parts of the body are pro- 
tected, the sole aim of the combatant being to draw 
blood from his opponent's face. The German stu- 
dent prizes the wounds he receives in the contest 
quite as highly as the American football player does 
his scars. But these badges cannot be put away 
with childish things, and so it comes about in Ger- 
many, as it does everywhere^ that men bear through 
life the marks of their early foolishness. 

The castles of Heidelberg deserve renown. 
"Next to the Alhambra of Granada,'' said Longfel- 
low, "the castle of Heidelberg is the most magnifi- 
cent ruin of the Middle Ages." Seven centuries 
have passed since its foundation walls were laid — 
centuries of storm and strife. The Thirty Years' 
War surged about it again and again. The wars 
of Louis XIV almost overwhelmed it. Yet it 
stands to-day stately in its ruins. 

Eor situation it is unsurpassed. It nestles on the 
wooded slope of the Jettenbuhl. Behind it rise the 
forest-crowned hills of the Giessberg and the Kaiser- 
stuhl. Far beneath flows the ISTeckar through fer- 
tile meadows shut in by walls of living green. The 
ascent from the town is steep, so steep that modern 
enterprise has seen fit to construct a funicular road 



140 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

for the convenience of the sightseer. But the wind- 
ing way under overarching branches of gnarled 
trees is a more fitting approach to the gray ruins. 
And it impresses one, moreover, with the wisdom of 
the old Counts Palatine; for in those days, when 
siege guns were unknown, the steep ascent counted 
for something in case of attack. 

All the appointments of a feudal castle are still 
visible. The great moat, forty or fifty feet wide 
and as many deep, still surrounds the ruins, though 
in it now are growing century-old oaks. You cross 
the moat on a mole of earth where once the draw- 
bridge hung, enter the giant gateway where the 
portcullis hangs rusted in its sockets, pass the pon- 
derous doors of the inner wall; and you have 
stepped back into the Middle Ages. Round about 
you rise the shattered walls of the ancient fortress, 
from the niches of which look silently down the 
martial heroes of those turbulent times. About the 
turrets and embrasured battlements one easily 
fancies knights flitting with noiseless armor. 
Through court and hallway slip shadows of fair 
ladies; you can almost hear the rustle of their robes. 
The past becomes a reality once more for a moment 
as you stand beside its tomb. The life which lies 
buried under the debris of six centuries, once 
more pours through the ancient ways. The knight 
buckles on his armor at the call to arms, and sallies 
forth amid the farewells of fair ladies and the flour- 
ish of trumpet. The minstrel tunes the lyre to his 
lay. Kniglit and maiden woo while the tourna- 



WITH THE TOHKIST TIDE 141 

ments are run. The festal board is spread in the 
spacious banquet hall, while wine and merriment 
flow free. And even as you watch, some Sir Gala- 
had sets forth in search of the Holy Grail. 

The castle itself is a sort of chronicle, the several 
parts having been built in successive centuries. 
And they were built as if for all time. The walls 
of the Thick Tower are twenty-three feet of solid 
masonry — quite equal to the attack of the most 
powerful modern gun. The magazine tower was 
almost as massive, and its masonry was so firm that 
when the French blew it up in 1689 it only split in 
two; and the severed half of it lies to-day in the 
moat below, a solid mass of masonry. Whatever 
those old Electors did was of heroic proportions. In 
one of the cellars is the Heidelberg Tun, an enor- 
mous cask with a capacity of forty-nine thousand 
gallons. On the top of this huge barrel, which is 
reached by two flights of stairs, the Elector Theo- 
dore and his court danced when the Tun was first 
filled in 1751. Twice after that it was filled, and at 
the festal board above the wine ran free as water, 
pumped from the great reservoir as the toasts were 
drunk. 

But for more than two hundred years the frown- 
ing palace has been untenanted, its walls shattered 
by the shock of war, its rich ornament of figures 
and frieze and filagree broken by ruthless hand and 
marred by storm, its halls pillaged of their trophies 
and its chambers robbed of their treasures. Those 
who defended it so valiantly have passed out of its 



142 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

portals, and the Castle of Heidelberg remains a 
crumbling witness on the highway of history. 

When we had dreamed ourselves back down the 
vista of centuries — and had waked again; when we 
had lingered beside the soft-flowing river to watch 
the children at play in its shallows, and had loitered 
with the easy come and go of the people on the nar- 
row streets; when we had drunk a full draught at 
the fountain of inspiration which flows from Heidel- 
berg and its castle, — like birds of passage we con- 
tinued our journey, and alighted next at Frankfort- 
on-the-Main. This is the famous Frankfort, the 
ancient Free City, so conspicuous in the commercial 
world of several centuries ago, and in which were 
crowned a long line of emperors of that Holy 
Koman Empire, which Voltaire said was so named 
because it was neither holy nor Roman nor an em- 
pire. But perhaps the greatest thing the city ever 
did was to give to the world one of its four great 
poets; for the Psalmist of old, in singing the praises 
of his city, set down as chief thing that "this man 
was born there." Frankfort was the birthplace of 
Goethe. 

The first place of interest, therefore, to which we 
turned when we had found lodging, was the Goethe 
House. If one must choose between paying his 
devotions at the tomb of a great man and visiting the 
scenes of his childhood, let him by all means choose 
the latter. Let him see the things which went into 
the making of that life, the rooms where the forma- 
tive years were spent, the pictures, the books, the 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 143 

playthings, the near and the distant view which day 
after day greeted the eyes of the child. Let him 
linger over these things rather than over the epi- 
taph. And one may dwell to his heart's content 
upon the scenes of Goethe's childhood. Eor in a 
little street with a long name, Grosshirschgraben, 
near the center of the town, stands the quaint house 
where the greatest of Germans was born, much the 
same within and without as it was in his day. If 
you are minded to mount to the third story, under 
the roof, the affable porter, who has served here a 
quarter of a century and knows the Goethe legend 
by heart, will show you the small back room where 
the child was born, more dead than alive, as he tells 
us long afterward in the story of his life, ^ear by 
is the nursery with a rude pygmy theater which the 
boy patched together out of goods boxes for the 
puppet play with which he entertained his young 
companions. His study and that of his father are 
still shown, the books in place, his father's mostly 
legal, the boy's mostly polite literature. And 
through these things one gets a glimpse of the early 
bent of the great German. In a corner of the study 
b the desk at which he made his first serious effort 
at authorship, "Goetz von Berlichingen," after his 
first year in the University. He tells us that he 
re-wrote the entire work; from which statement we 
of lesser mould may take courage when our efforts 
fail. Great men and small must pay in the same 
coin at the counter of Fortune — the coin of labor. 
Jlere at this same desk he began another work, 



144 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

which after sixty years he gave to the world as 
"Faust." 

On the walls of the horae are many pictures 
representing Italian scenes and art, gathered by the 
elder Goethe during his travels in that country. 
They shed their quiet influence upon the boy day 
after day as he went in and out, and that influence 
is traceable through the man's whole life. It was 
thirty-eight years before he could realize the cher- 
ished visit to Mignon's land, but during all that time 
he was preparing for it with a devotion and enthu- 
siasm which made it an epoch in his life. 

^or must the mother of Goethe be forgotten in 
summing up the early influences of his life. It is 
almost without exception that great men have re- 
markable mothers — whatever the fathers may be. 
Frau Goethe must have been almost an ideal 
mother. She was a brilliant woman, but her bril- 
liancy illuminated her own home rather than social 
coteries. She cared first of all for her household. 
]^or did she consider her duty done when the chil- 
dren w^ere clothed and fed. She was a companion 
to her boy, and through the touch of companionship 
trained him. She would tell a story half through, 
and leave it for the next time, when she led him to 
repeat what she had told and to finish it in his own 
way, thus training his memory and imagination. 
Little wonder he became one of the most charming 
story-tellers in all literature. 

We tarried long about the haunts of the poet's 
childhood. But surely it is worth while, if one can 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 145 

get a glimpse of those things which went into the 
making of so great a life. We visited the museum, 
on the ground floor, where are to be seen sundry 
relics, dropped on the wayside of life by their owner 
as of no worth, but gathered here as priceless treas- 
ures by a worshiping world — a jaunty hunting cap, 
a letter worth fifteen hundred dollars, a lock of the 
poet's hair and one of his friend Schiller's. 

When our respects had been paid to the sacred 
relics we bade adieu to the poet's home, and set out 
toward the Roemer. As we were taking a near cut 
through a narrow, questionable-looking street, we 
heard a voice say, "I wouldn't go down dat way, 
white-folks; you mought git hurt." We turned 
instinctively, for our Southern ears knew that the 
words were meant for us, and saw coming along the 
street a real negro of the cottonfields, with a broad 
smile on his face and a ragged coat on his back. 
He had come over as a stowaway, and had gotten 
stranded here. Evidently he was having a hard 
time making his wants known to the German folk, 
for he confessed himself penniless, and doubtless 
could have lent a hearty amen to Dr. Johnson's 
famous "yours impransus." We counted it well 
worth a dime to hear there in the Erankfort streets 
the voice of the cottonfields — it was like a message 
from home — and we cheerfully transferred to him 
some coin of the realm. 

The Roemer, or Town Hall, is a quaint, historic 
building. The Kaisersaal is perhaps the chief place 

lO 



146 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

of interest to the sightseer. The floor, of inlaid 
wood in various colors^ is polished till it reflects the 
furniture. Entering, you step into felt slippers, and 
slide around the hall looking at the portraits of em- 
perors who sat upon the throne from the days of 
Conrad I, in 912, to those of Franz II, in 1806, at 
which latter date the "Holy Eoman Empire," long 
since dead, was formally declared defunct. But 
before its long decline it played a mighty part in the 
history of Europe, counting among its emperors 
Charlemagne and Barbarossa and Charles Y. 

After one day, all too short, in the famous city, 
we continued our journey to Mayence — renowned as 
the birthplace of the printed book, — and renewed 
acquaintance with our river guide. How majestic 
he had grown in the interval of our absence, 
swollen by the floods of the l^eckar and Main! 
Here far away from his Alpine cradle, with the 
strength of all the German hills gathered in his 
bosom, he moves confidently down upon the moun- 
tain ramparts that separate him from the sea. And 
those ramparts! They are an ocean of motionless 
billows, rolling away in a crescendo of beauty, their 
slopes green to the summit with shimmering vine- 
yards and undulating fields of grain, the earnest of 
a harvest to be. 

Taking ship at Mayence, we passed through this 
profusion of beauty, and came to Bingen. What 
schoolboy has not heard of "Bingen, fair Bingen on 
the Rhine," and of the soldier of the legion that 
"lay dying in Algiers"? But, alas! Algiers is 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 147 

French, and Bingen is now German — the tragedy of 
history. We climbed to the citadel, an ancient 
castle dominating the city, and looked out. To the 
south an undulating plain as far as the eye could 
see. At our feet the ancient town asleep under its 
red tiled roofs. To the west the broad waters of 
the river losing themselves in the hills. On a 
height across to the north a monument of victory, 
commemorating the struggle of 1870, and the sol- 
diers of the Rhineland who gave their lives upon the 
battlefield. Beyond, the wooded plains of the 
Niederwald. 

Every hill that stoops to meet the river is clothed 
with vines, the slopes so steep that walls are built 
to buttress the terraces. The hillsides are hand- 
fuls of earth held in place by the patient labor of 
many generations. So closely do the terraces suc- 
ceed each other that as one looks up from the river, 
the slope seems a mass of masonry. The soil in 
places is covered to a depth of three or four inches 
with loose stones like chippings from a quarry — ^you 
can thrust your hand among them. But beneath 
this coat of mail the vine roots find ingredients 
which in the warm sunshine are distilled into finest 
wines. What strikes the American at first is the 
prodigious amount of labor represented on those 
slopes. But permanent work always pays, and that 
is a lesson which America has yet to learn. The 
walls are the heritage of centuries. The vintage is 
every year. The people of the Khine have worked 
for their children's children. 



148 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

Peaceful and happy lies the valley, as though its 
quiet had never been disturbed by the shock of war. 
One could imagine the course of history moving here 
at an even tide, like the flow of the river, without 
whirlpool or flood. But no fitter place than this 
same quiet valley could be found for a monument 
of strife. For fifteen hundred years, since first the 
Frank and Roman joined in mortal struggle for 
supremacy of the soil, the Rhine valley has echoed 
to the din of war. Beneath vine and waving grain 
and sloping sod sleep the countless legions of the 
centuries. How deep the strata of history lie along 
this valley. Scarcely had the Roman fixed himself 
well in his hard-won possessions when hordes of Hun 
and Vandal came like a black cloud out of the un- 
known east, swept with devastating fury over the 
land of the Rhine, and ushered in the weird twilight 
of the Dark Ages. Half a millennium the gloom 
hung over the land, till the age of chivalry and 
feudalism began to dawn. What deeds were done 
in those dim Ages unlit for us by pen of chronicler ! 
A spear point, a broken shield long folded in the 
earth, a mouldering skeleton, are all that remain to 
tell us of these centuries. 

But of the feudal age there remains many a mon- 
ument beside the Rhine. From Bingen to Cologne 
there is scarce a mountain summit but is crowned 
with the ruins of a castle. This is the picturesque 
Rhine, of which our poet might well have sung, 

"The splendor falls on castle walls, 
And snowy summits old in story." 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 149 

And one could almost continue with the bard, 

"Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying-, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying." 

But the echoes of the bugles that blew about 
those towers have been lost these many centuries in 
the mountain gorges. The age which gave birth to 
feudal life is numbered with the past. The once 
princely palaces of the lords who dominated the 
land of the Rhine have fallen into ruins, out of the 
crumbling windows of which the ghost of the past 
peers at you as through the eyeless sockets of a 
bleaching skull. Here in these ancient highways 
of human life one comes close to the garment of 
history. Here by the tombs of the mighty one 
feels the reality of the past. It is one thing to read 
of the feudal system. It is another thing to walk 
through the halls and upon the battlements where 
feudalism dwelt; to step upon the drawbridge and 
look down into the moat; to enter the keep in whose 
donjon captives were left to pine away; to touch the 
dented armor of horse and man, dented in the shock 
of mortal combat; to stand beside the tombs of 
those who wrote their names in bold sword strokes 
upon the pages of history. 

i^owhere in all the world are fact and fiction more 
indissolubly blended than along the Rhine. Every 
turn is haunted with tradition. By Bingen^ stand- 
ing on a little island, is the Mouse Tower, so named, 
says legend, because here a certain Bishop Hatto 
was devoured by rats when he had refused his starv- 



150 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

ing people a sliare of his hoarded grain and had 
burned up some who would have taken it by force. 
Pursued by the grinning rodents, the Bishop fled 
for safety to the island, only to be ferreted out in 
his stronghold by the scourge of Providence, and 
torn to pieces bit by bit. 

Drifting down the river we came to the Lurlei 
rock, grandest on the Rhine, made famous in music 
and song by Mendelssohn and Heine. Here sat the 
Syren in the evening glow, combing her golden hair 
with a golden comb, while she sang a song which 
lured the skippers to wreck on the rocks below. 
Farther down are the twin castles of Sterrenberg 
and Liebenstein, halo-circled with legend. Two 
brothers fell in love with a foster sister. Heinrich 
yielded the field to his brother, and went to the 
Crusades. Conrad grew cold in the absence of 
rivalry, went away, and returned with a foreign 
bride. Heinrich would have slain him for his 
perfidy, but the sister intervening, reconciled them, 
and retired to a convent, leaving the brothers to live 
amicably in neighboring castles. 

Passing down this echo gallery of history, we cast 
anchor for the night at the little village of Ober- 
'lahnstein, where the river Lahn pours its waters into 
Father Phine. The moonlight flooded mountain 
and stream. Far above the town in the mist stood 
a gray sentinel, the castle Lahneck. On the other 
shore, crowning a wooded eminence, rose the noble 
castle of Stolzenfels, restored to something of its 
pristine beauty, and now become a summer resi- 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 151 

dence of the Emperor. ^NText morning we climbed 
to Lahneck, up the precipitous slope, through vine- 
yards on either hand. The castle occupies a site 
unsurpassed both for security and scenery. It 
crowns the rocky point between two rivers. On the 
one side flows the Rhine; on the other stretches the 
Lahn valley. We entered the castle without chal- 
lenge of sentry. The chains of the drawbridge 
were rusted away, and the moat was filled with 
flowers. 

That day we passed Coblenz with Ehrenbreitstein 
frowning down upon it from the farther shore. 
The fortress has claimed a place in history since 
first the adventurous Roman pitched his camp upon 
the rock's ample brow. On its slope French and 
German have struggled for supremacy. And 
to-day it stands guard here over the German Rhine, 
after Gibraltar one of the world's most impregnable 
fortresses. As the day was waning toward evening, 
we came to where the river breaks from among 
the hillSj and starts on the last course of its career, 
across the lowlands. To the north and falling back 
from the water's edge are the Seven Mountains, the 
farthest outposts of the hills. And upon the last 
of these, standing guard at the gateway of the river, 
is the stately ruin of the Drachenfels, its broken 
battlements silhouetted against the sky. About it 
legends cling like clouds. In a cave of the cliff 
beneath the castle lived the fabled dragon, a terror 
to all who passed, till Siegfried slew the monster 



152 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

and made himself invulnerable by batting in the 
dragon's blood. 

When we had watched the Drachenf els fade back 
into the mists of distance, we turned and caught 
sight of the twin spires of Cologne Cathedral dimly 
visible in the haze ahead. And in due time we 
landed in that city which, when it was but a Roman 
settlement on the outskirts of the world, the Em- 
peror Claudius named Colonia Agrippina in honor 
of his wife. But this queen of the Rhine has long- 
since forgotten her descent, and is now German to 
the heart. The most conspicuous object of the 
city is the cathedral, the finest specimen of Gothic 
architecture in the world. Its towers rise five hun- 
dred feet, and its length is four hundred. It was 
six hundred years in building, and is a monument 
first of all to the abiding faith of a people. Wars 
might come, famine might fall upon the land, work- 
men might lay down their chisels; but the work 
went on, interrupted by the vicissitudes of time, 
but not stopped. How many generations of work- 
men succeeded each other on the scaffolding, father 
yielding place to son in the sacred service. How 
many a sacrifice of the widow's mite is sealed within 
those walls. 

Such was the land of the Rhine as we saw it on 
a summer's holiday, a land rich in history and 
legend, a land peerless in scenic loveliness — 

"A blending- of all beauties; streams and dells, 

Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine. 
And chiefless castles breaking stern farewells 
From gray but leafy walls where ruin dwells." 



CHAPTER X 

PARIS 

We had been looking forward to the boulevards of 
Paris ever since we left the canals of Venice. It 
was with pleasant expectations, therefore, that we 
boarded the through express at Cologne in the early 
morning of the last day in July, and turned our 
faces toward the French capital. Our route took 
us by Aix-la-Chapelle, the capital, and burial place 
of Charlemagne, through the bounds of Belgium, 
into France. It was a pleasant journey, that run 
from the Rhine to the Seine, for the train was one 
of the finest on the continent, with corridor cars, 
sumptuous dining saloons, and luxurious appoint- 
ments. The passengers were a cosmopolitan crowd, 
many of them bound for the great exposition then 
open at Liege. The tedium of the run was broken 
at the French border, where luggage had to pass in- 
spection. Tobacco and matches are the contraband 
of war on European borders. Knowing this, we 
always traveled short on these commodities. We 
were, therefore, soon done with, and had time to 
watch our fellow-travelers. Every piece of lug- 
gage, large and small, had to pass under the in- 
spector's eye before it could receive its passport, a 
chalk mark. But the examination was perfunctory 
in most cases, the official asking only after the for- 



154 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

bidden articles. One man was relieved of some fine 
cigars, against his vigorous protest. Another had 
more matches than the government thought it safe 
for him to travel with, and his load was lightened. 
You may carry through about as many of these 
articles as you can get into a vest pocket; that is, 
about enough to keep a lover of the weed to the 
end of the trip. The explanation is that the govern- 
ment itself has a monopoly on these commodities. 

When the sun was well down the western sky, the 
spires of Paris began to appear upon the misty 
horizon ahead, and in due time we drew into the 
JSTorth station, and set foot on French soil. To be 
in Paris! It was like realizing the scenes of 
"Arabian Mghts." We took carriages, and drove 
down across the city, past the triumphal arch of 
Louis XIV, past JSTotre Dame, across the Seine, 
slipping under its bridges; up through the Latin 
Quarter, by the university, and do^vn the Boulevard 
de Port Royal to our stopping place. We passed 
the time of day with our cabman in his own ver- 
nacular, and found that he had been doing business 
in Paris for twenty-eight years — since long before 
some of his passengers there were born. 'No 
wonder he knew his city by heart — he had been 
studying it nearly thirty years, and in that time 
business had taken him doubtless into every alley 
of the city. He was interesting and jovial withal, 
spoke to every driver he passed on the streets, and 
had a cheerful word for every one — a big-hearted 
knight of the whip, who had come to know 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 155 

humanity, touching it at so many angles every day. 
And there are just five thousand of his brotherhood 
driving their business in Paris to-day. 

One would like to say something of our hostess in 
the French capital — for it was a family pension at 
which we stopped, and not a fashionable hotel — but 
her fine modesty forbids. Her life had been spent 
here, and she knew her Paris as the cabman knew 
his. For years Americans had been almost con- 
stant guests at her table; yet she was content to 
speak her native tongue. She was consummate in 
the difficult art of presiding at table; and it was a 
proverb among her guests that she could divine your 
needs, though she could not always understand your 
speech. Michel the maid, grown gray in the service 
of her mistress, seemed to imbibe some of the lat- 
ter's gift, and presided beside your chair as effi- 
ciently as the madame did at the head of the board. 
The fare was such as one likes to revert to in epicu- 
rean mood. 

We were not slow to begin our sight-seeing. 
Supper over, we turned out to see Paris by night. 
I^ow, though slumming is as reprehensible abroad 
as it is at home, the traveler who never does any 
sight-seeing after nightfall misses much that is 
worth while. It is one thing to see a city by day 
and quite another to see it by night. There is one 
city of the sunlight, and another of the electric 
light. Being advised that life on the boulevards 
would not be at its best till eleven in the evening, 
we boarded a tram about ten o'clock, and started 



156 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

down to tlie Grand Boulevard, which is a broad busi- 
ness avenue extending from the Place de la Eepub- 
lique past the Grand Opera to the Church of the 
Madeleine. Boarding a Paris street car is not so 
easy as it might seem, especially in the evening 
when all the city turns out for an airing. You 
secure your number at a booth on the corner, and 
await your turn. The car stops, the crowd rushes 
up, the conductor calls out in fine running Erench 
the numbers, getting his cue from the booth-keeper 
as to his numerals. There may be fifty ahead of 
yours, but you need not try to ^'butt in" after the 
American fashion, for Erenchmen are versed in 
^^The Rights of Man.'' Perhaps one fifth of the 
crowd find places, the tram is then "complete,'' for 
a Paris tram is no omnibus with room always for 
one more. The rest of the crowd wait or go on 
foot. 

The cars are usually double deckers, and the 
upper deck is crowded of a summer evening, because 
the view is better and the breeze fresher. We 
finally managed to get upstairs seats, and so went 
do^vn across the city under electric lights. A ride 
of several miles brought us to the Grand Boulevard. 
It is a river of light, a milky way across the starlit 
expanse of the great city. And in that way a 
stream of humanity pours back and forth till long 
past the small hours of the morning, some in 
tatters of poverty and some in flounces of silk, some 
with pinched faces and some with the bloom of 
youth, some with despair in their eyes and some 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 157 

with joy, some in innocence and some under the 
stamp of sin — for the Grand Boulevard brooks no 
exclusiveness of caste. We alighted and joined the 
throng. The restaurants were doing a driving 
business, pavements filled to the curbstone with the 
overflow of customers; and all in a flood of light. 
Men and Avomen, old and young, from the ends of 
the earth, sat and drank at the tables, and went on 
their ways. Anything that was ever poured down 
a human throat in the form of beverage was on tap, 
from carbonated water to absinthe — no prohibition 
there. 

As we sat at the tables an old man with wizen 
face came among them, hunting under them and 
hooking out with his crooked cane the stumps of 
cigars and cigarettes, for all the world like a starved 
cur hunting crumbs. What he found he stuffed 
into a pocket of his grimy coat. To what use he 
turned the refuse only the goddess of poverty 
knows. He was evidently a recognized habitue of 
the boulevard, for one of the waiters gave him the 
leavings of a wine glass, which he took into the 
shadow and drank with apparent relish, then went 
hobbling across the street to continue his search for 
"ducks." Rarely will you find a more abject speci- 
men of humanity than this gray bat of the boule- 
vards, coming out of his attic hiding-place when the 
shadows fall, and disappearing again with the ap- 
proach of day. A poor starved fellow in thread- 
bare coat came up to sell us some illustrated cards. 
Surely it must be a precarious living he picks up 



158 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

thus among the tables. An aged woman, who 
ought to have been in bed at that hour, was offering 
an evening paper on the street corner, while a half - 
grown boy went tearing down the boulevard shout- 
ing his wares upon the midnight air. As we lin- 
gered in the first hours of the coming day, some 
enterprising paper turned its morning issue upon the 
boulevard — and immediately the papers of the 
evening were ancient history. Along the way men 
were crying the attractions of dime museums and 
gaiety shows. Up against a great building moving 
pictures held the attention of a crowd^ ending in 
advertisement of a drink. Students fom the Latin 
Quarter with their amorettes paraded the streets, 
pausing to watch some legerdemain or to gaze into 
a shop window where diamonds and pearls sparkled 
under electric light. Such was Paris as we saw it 
on a summer night. 

We set out one Sunday to see what the French 
capital thought of the fourth commandment. The 
shops were open for business, except a few on the 
main streets. Across the closed shutters of these 
was printed this peculiar sign, ^^closed on Sundays 
and fete days." Evidently an exception in business 
circles. Before one shop a carpenter was busy with 
his saw, blocking the narrow sidewalk. "Next door 
a woman was weighing out vegetables. A squad of 
workmen were laying cobblestones in the street. 
Another was fixing the sewer. 

We made our way over to the Madeleine, the 
most fashionable church in the city. It stands at 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 159 

the intersection of two boulevards, an imposing pile 
of Corinthian architecture, suggestive of a Greek 
temple. Across the facade are the historic words, 
"Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite," which cry of the 
revolution even the places of worship have not 
escaped. Dodging an automobile and a huge load 
of furniture, we entered the great portals. The 
crowd was flowing in at one door and out at another 
as mass was celebrated. We secured seats at two 
cents each per mass, payable in advance. A priest 
mounted the pulpit which was glued nest-like to one 
of the great columns; but the crowd within and the 
trafiic without combined to drown all he said. We 
joined the ebb-tide and passed out. 

Next we went down into the old city between 
Notre Dame and the Place de la Bastille to see what 
the other extreme of society was doing with the day. 
Women were hawking fruit there from handcarts, 
while squalid children littered the sidewalks; 
butchers and bakers were driving a brisk trade; 
cafes were overflowing into the streets. The fourth 
commandment might never have been given, for all 
it affected life in these streets. One wonders what 
per cent, of Parisians attend church on Sunday. 

Finally, to see what last comment Paris had to 
make upon this her way of life, her ^liberty, 
equality, fraternity,'' we turned back to a little 
building just behind Notre Dame, upon an island of 
the Seine. It is the city morgue, where are 
brought the bodies of those who have grown weary 
of their "liberty," or against whom fraternal hands 



160 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 

have been raised, like Cain's against his brother. 
Here at last they find "equality," lying side by side 
upon the marble slabs, waiting for some one to tell 
whose these were that yesterday flew so eagerly to 
ills they knew not of. There were ^ye unfortu- 
nates awaiting identification the day of our visit, 
four men and one woman, propped up there behind 
the glass to be gazed at by a gaping world. And 
every year there pass this way some eight hundred. 

"Poor men, God made, and all for that! 

The reverence struck me; o'er each head 
Religiously was hung its hat, 

Each coat dripped by the owner's bed, 
Sacred from touch: each had his berth, 

His bounds, his proper place of rest. 
Who last night tenanted on earth 

Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast, — 
Unless the plain asphalt seemed best." 

After the horrors of the morgue, the serenity of 
the great cathedral was welcome to us. ^N'otre 
Dame is one of the world's famous churches. And 
these ancient cathedrals are fit to give us pause as 
we drift by them on the tourist tide, for few monu- 
ments tell so aptly the story of the past. Study the 
old cathedral. Look closely at the sculpture that 
covers its face like a veil of gauze. There is in it 
a significance beyond its beauty, a meaning beyond 
art. It has its message for the artist and architect, 
to be sure, but its lesson was not for them. In the 
long ago, when there was no Bible in the home, no 
missal in the pew, men went to worship, and took 
home what they could of the service. Memory had 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 161 

to bridge the gap of work-a-day life. But how were 
the lessons of the church to be impressed upon the 
worshippers so that they would not fade away in 
the outside world? The answer to that question 
was the cathedral of the early ages, built to assist 
as object-lesson in the great school where the 
teacher was the church, the pupils mankind, the 
theme religion. 

It was not solely a place for worship, it was a 
part of worship. It was the Bible illustrated. The 
worshiper, hastening to mass in the early hours, 
might see in the morning light above him the lesson 
of yesterday repeated in stone, the blessed Virgin, 
the saints and angels, the descent of the spirit, the 
solemn forms of patriarchs and kings. And those 
other forms far up beneath the cornice, monsters, 
hideous nightmares of the sculptor, projecting out 
against the sky — what are they that seem struggling 
wildly out from the walls of the church ? They are 
demons fleeing from the power of righteousness; 
the illustration, "^^And he gave them power over un- 
clean spirits to cast them out." And so, moved by 
these to serious thought, he passes in to worship in 
the very shadow of the cross, for nave and transept 
form a crucifix, to keep the people in remembrance. 
And as he kneels in silent prayer, the light falling 
through the great windows upon the upturned face 
brings the same message, for the windows are scrolls 
more gorgeously illumined than the silver codex of 
Upsala. And when the eyes are become accus- 
II 



162 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

tomed to the dim light of the holy place, he may 
look up to the walls and vaults, and see the story told 
once more in painting and fresco. 

So, the cathedral was the people's Bible. It was 
the primer of the ages, the picture-book of the un- 
learned, where they saw illustrated the words their 
teachers spoke. It was the great stone book. So 
the people built and worshiped through the cen- 
turies, till the advent of the printed book changed it 
all. A little thing that seemed as it came from 
Gutenberg's press, but the frail leaves of paper 
bound together with a thread were to triumph over 
the great stone book, and take its place. The day 
that saw the birth of Gutenberg's Bible marked the 
passing of ancient cathedrals. They are still 
sacred as places of worship, but no longer in the 
sense as of yore. The world visits them to-day, in 
reverence, but it is as one who turns the pages of 
a missal for memory's sake. The greajfc stone book 
is sealed. 

For seven centuries and a half !Notre Dame has 
stood here beside the Seine looking down upon the 
stream of history as it flowed beneath its towers. 
It has watched the passing of king and kingdom, of 
emperor and empire. War and revolution have left 
their mark upon it. The venerable pile was 
devoted to destruction in the unholy days of Terror, 
but escaped with mutilation. . In turn it became a 
^Temple of Reason," a military depot^ a stable for 
cavalry. It has suffered all things except earth- 
quake. But no degradation could rob it of its 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 163 

nobility. We climbed the worn spiral stair to its 
towers. It was like climbing the ladder of history, 
for when we came out upon the landing among the 
gargoyles we had dropped back from modern Paris 
to the age which Hugo depicts in his story of the 
famous church, and to the Hunchback of Notre 
Dame habiting here among these his counterparts 
in stone; and looking over the balustrade, we could 
see in fancy on the square below the life of 
mediaeval Paris as the great Frenchman describes 
it in his historic novel. While we lingered here 
over the dead past dreaming among its vestiges, we 
were roused out of our reverie by the advent of a 
group of our countrymen, so boisterous and frivo- 
lous of speech that one could well think of them 
cracking questionable jokes over the flag-draped 
tomb of N'apoleon. They had come here to the 
very shrines of history with no knowledge of the 
past, and therefore with no regard for its monu- 
ments. They were bent solely on a summer picnic, 
and had climbed the towers of Notre Dame in the 
same idle spirit. Standing here with well-nigh a 
thousand years of history beneath their feet, they 
were all oblivious. And yet they will tell it 
among their friends that they have seen Notre 
Dame. Even so then, every kodak that has winked 
its soulless eye upon this majestic pile has seen the 
ancient cathedral. It takes more than a retina or 
a sensitive film to see. We left them to their de- 
lights, and descended again into Paris. 

Another day we took boat down the Seine to the 



164 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

Champ de Mars. The river has its own life, with 
its boats, its bath-houses, its bridges where history 
has been made over night, its quays laden with 
flowers and quaint book stalls, its idlers pretending 
to angle in its murky waters or lounging without 
pretense on its piers, its tragic stories. We landed 
at the Pont d'lena, where the Champ abuts on the 
river, and near where stands the Eiffel tower, 
highest structure in the world — as yet. Having 
paid our three francs each, we took passage for the 
top, nearly a fifth of a mile above. Inclines and 
elevators finally brought us to our destination. It 
was Paris in miniature, for there among the clouds 
was a glass pavilion fifty-four feet square, and 
about it booths where refreshments, souvenirs, and 
entertainments were offered the sight-seer. Post 
cards are for sale here, and can be mailed from the 
top of the tower with all assurance that they will 
reach their destination, were it the uttermost part 
of the earth. A score of men and women keep the 
tower and booths, their lives spent for the most part 
in this steel-girded eyrie. And here too certain 
ambitious ones have inscribed their names on glass 
and metal, fearful perhaps lest they might not else 
be lifted up in the eyes of the world. A splendid 
view of the city and surrounding country is offered 
from the top of the tower, a landscape forty miles 
in radius, almost the measure of a principality. 
While we watched, a summer cloud passed over the 
city, trailing its fringe of rain. The sunbeams 
bursting out of the west caught the cloud as it re- 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 165 

treated and painted a rainbow on its dark wrack, 
one end of the arch resting on the Church of the 
Sacred Heart and the heights of Montmartre, the 
other resting across on E^otre Dame by the Seine — 
and under the bow the homes of a million men. 

E'ot far from the Champ is the Hotel des Inva- 
lides, or Old Soldiers' Home, erected by Louis XIV 
as an asylum for those who had worn themselves out 
in his wars. And here under the majestic dome, a 
fit resting-place for the great chieftain, lies all that 
is mortal of Napoleon, brought hither in state from 
the willows of St. Helena after a tardy twenty 
years, in fulfilment of the soldier's last request, "I 
desire that my ashes may rest by the banks of the 
Seine, in the midst of that French people whom I 
loved so well." And here his ashes rest in a mam- 
moth sarcophagus of Siberian porphyry (O mockery 
of the Fates !), the captured banners from many 
fields draped over him, and round about the 
pedestal the names of his victories written in stone. 
How still he sleeps there after the fierce fever, l^o 
more war's alarms for those ears that quickened at 
the roar of Russia's guns and the booming of 
Wagram and Austerlitz. They are dull now for- 
ever. The pulsing of the titanic brain has ceased. 
The hands have laid down their empire building and 
are folded to rest. He hearkens no longer to the 
beatings of the storm-lashed ocean of life. !Nor 
does he heed the stream of humanity that all day 
long flows past his resting-place, as with bared head 
and mufiled step, posterity comes to do him rever- 



166 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

ence. How small the parallax of fame and empire 
must seem when viewed from eternity. 

One morning after shopping on the Rue de Rivoli 
we went do^^m to the galleries of the Louvre. Our 
last taste of art had been in Venice, and we felt 
sufficiently recuperated from Italian excesses to try 
the galleries once more. The Louvre is confusing 
in the prodigality of its collection. You get lost 
in the maze of masterpieces, and sit down in sheer 
despair. The best way is to single out a few pieces, 
or have them singled out for you, and confine your- 
self to them. We did this, and were paying our 
respects to Millet's "Gleaners," when a tourist 
comet swept into view, bearing down across the 
great hall in our direction, headed by a professional 
guide who had probably been picked up at the en- 
trance. We retired from the direct line of its orbit, 
and watched it go past. The head halted before the 
picture while the tail telescoped. The follow- 
ing artistic introduction was made by the master 
of ceremonies : 'This is the 'Gleaners.' " (The 
name stood above the painting in large black letters.) 
"It was painted by Millet." (The artist's name 
occurred also just under the picture.) "He painted 
another picture, called the 'Angelus,' which was sold 
for a hundred thousand dollars. You might think 
he was a rich man, but he died owing his butcher 
and baker." And with that the comet moved on 
to make acquaintance with other stars in the galaxy. 
And perhaps it was as well, after all, for you recall 
Tennyson's story of the man who insisted on dis- 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 167 

cussing market quotations while he stood beside the 
Venus of Milo. This last piece of art, with the 
Winged Mke, the one armless, the other headless, 
are the two pieces of sculpture which, above all 
others^ it is worth the tourist's time to see. 

But to the great world unwashed with the varnish 
of culture, Paris is not the home of art and archi- 
tecture, but rather the foster-mother of fashions. 
The readers of "The Houseboat" will recall that 
when Captain Kidd stole that wonderful vessel, and 
found to his amazement that he had on his hands 
the wives of the shadowy clubmen, he headed 
straight for Paris in the fond hope that he might be 
able to lose Mrs. l^oah and Xantippe and the rest on 
the Rue de Rivoli. And certainly the shops of the 
French capital are a paradise for woman, especially 
if she has a long purse. But think of it ! a crowd 
of seven men shopping in Paris with not a woman 
among them. The "Magazins du Louvre" and the 
"Bon Marche" are two of the largest department 
stores in the world, and in them you can purchase 
nearly anything the market affords. One can 
hardly help spending his money for the bargains 
that load the counters. We bought silk and gloves 
and shirtwaist patterns all at a venture, wondering 
the while whether they would suit when we had 
them at home. It was interesting to watch the shop- 
pers, and see women demolish the bargain counters 
of silk. 

We had many amusing experiences among the 
shops. The keepers have a custom of putting up in 



168 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

their show windows the sign, '^English spoken here/' 
which one of them is reputed to have explained as 
meaning that the customer might feel free to use 
that tongue if he so desired. At any rate we found, 
to use modern parlance, that the article was not up 
to advertisement. Two of our number stepped into 
a shoe-shop bearing this sign, and asked to be 
directed to the automobile races. "Certainly," 
said the affable clerk. "Which would you prefer, 
black or yellow?" Unable to make intelligent con- 
nection with the shoe man, they next turned to a 
restaurant with like sign, and put their question to 
the waiter. "Have seats, gentlemen," said that 
functionary. "Will you have ice-cream or lemon 
squash?" In despair of seeing the races, they 
told him to bring on the lemon squash, resolved 
henceforth not to be counted with that evil genera- 
tion "seeking after a sign." Indeed, shop-keepers, 
guides, and hackmen pick up a few phrases of 
English in order to catch the tourist trade. But 
outside of their narrow beat they are as helpless as 
the traveler who tries to speak French according to 
Baedeker's "Manual of Conversation." 

The rest of our time in the city was taken up 
with visits to the Jardin des Plantes, the Champs 
Elysees, and the Bois de Boulogne. The Jardin 
contains one of the best Zoos in the world, and prob- 
ably altogether the most complete collection of 
stuffed and preserved specimens. There you may 
see the largest and the smallest bird in existence; 
also specimens of one or two kinds recently extinct. 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 169 

The Mammoth is there, long since perished, but 
preserved for us almost intact in nature's cold 
storage, the Siberian ice field. The Okapi is there, 
latest discovery of zoology. The life of the deep 
sea is exhibited in rare specimens, creatures above 
whose native haunts the ocean is heaped up three 
or four miles. The condor and the eagle are there, 
denizens of the upper deep. In the thoughtful 
walk of half a day you may see in the Jardin speci- 
mens of life from the tropics to the poles and from 
the ocean bed to the mountain top. The gardens 
and hothouses exhibit the flora of the globe. So the 
Jardin des Plantes is a veritable epitome of life on 
the earth. 

When we had wearied of sight-seeing here, we 
went across • town to see that other collection, the 
wonderfully varied and interesting exhibit of the 
genus homo which is open to visitors every afternoon 
of summer from ^ye to eight on the Champs 
Elysees and in the Bois. The tourist must by no 
means miss this feature of the French capital. 
There is nothing else quite like it. The Champs is 
a broad shady avenue running from the garden of 
the Tuileries to the Place de I'Etoile and the en- 
trance to the Bois. Here society airs itself of a 
summer afternoon. We had seen the boulevards by 
night. 'Now we saw them by day. At night the 
world was on foot. By day it was on wheels — 
wheels of all sorts, from hired cabs to private auto- 
mobiles. The new rich, the ^^yellow rich," the old 
rich, and the once rich were there — and those who 



iro WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

made no pretension to riches of any kind. A recent 
writer has said that you can divide society into 
"those who have to sell their old family pictures, 
those who have to buy their old family pictures, and 
the lucky few wdio need neither buy nor sell, who 
are neither going down nor bobbing up." And that 
division may hold for the Champs Elysees. There 
are faded dukes, and flushed bondholders; and 
those whose riches sit lightly upon them because 
they are "to the manner born.'' Here in a num- 
bered cab sits a veritable "old gentleman of the 
black stock," with the marks of gentility on his face 
and the marks of poverty on his coat. Over yonder 
in a private automobile is a woman who, if she were 
in the old gentleman's place, would be taken for an 
Irish servant. Here is a company driving quite as 
leisurely as if no one else were on the Champs, and 
there goes one forging ahead with all speed. The 
one is out for recreation; the other for show. So 
the broad stream pours along the avenue to the 
Place de I'Etoile, and loses itself in the two thou- 
sand acres of park beyond, till the sunlight has 
faded from the summit of iN'apoleon's Arch of 
Triumph. And to-morrow, with the regularity of 
the tides, the stream will flow and ebb again. 

One day we gave to Versailles. What a name to 
conjure with in the days when Louis XIV was 
dazzling Europe with the splendor of his court. 
But how empty now; for well-nigh a century has 
passed since the last weak scion of the Bourbon 
stock was lifted upon the throne of his fathers by 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE l7l 

the hands of the allied powers after Waterloo, only 
to leave it for an unwept grave in a few short years. 
And since that time the palaces of the Bourbon kings 
have been untenanted of royalty. Yet Versailles 
has a charm by virtue of its very emptiness. One 
likes to walk in its deserted halls and listen to the 
echo that comes to him down the long corridor of 
history; one likes to picture to himself the life that 
used to fill the palaces and overflow into the park 
beyond. It is worth while to meditate among the 
chambered shells from which the tide has ebbed. 
At least we thought so when we had spent a week in 
the swirl and roar of Paris. 

We set out, therefore, one morning to spend the 
day where royalty flourished before the breath of 
revolution blew upon it. Versailles is only fifteen 
miles from Paris, and can be reached in a few 
moments. Its claim to a place in history rests upon 
a whim of Louis XIV. His predecessors had re- 
sided at St. Germain, but the view from there in- 
cluded St. Denis, the burial place of the kings. 
Louis did not like to be reminded of the evanescence 
of terrestrial glory, and so the royal residence was 
transferred to Versailles. The star of France was 
then in the ascendant, and Louis was determined 
that it should not grow less under his reign. It was 
proper, therefore, that French royalty should be 
sumptuously housed, and he set about to build a 
palace such as for magnificence the world had never 
seen. How well he succeeded the visitor of to-day 
may see. 



172 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

When the palace and park were finished the 
treasury of the kingdom was poorer by a hundred 
million dollars. The facade of the great building 
as it faces the sunrise down the long vista of the 
park measures six hundred and thirty yards, and is 
broken by three hundred and seventy-five windows. 
Its capacity is ten thousand inmates. And you will 
understand why it was built so spacious when you 
remember that the civil household of the king num- 
bered no less than four thousand, besides two thou- 
sand in the retinue of his relatives at court, and 
nearly ten thousand in his military household, who 
lived for the most part in the town. There were 
nearly four hundred cooks in constant service at 
court, and other servants in proportion. Thither 
flocked the nobility of the kingdom to be in the lime- 
light; for to be absent from Versailles was to be 
forgotten. Here was the cradle of fashion, and 
here it grew to proportions never realized before or 
since. From the inner chambers went forth every 
morning the orders of the day for the conduct of the 
courtj rules written upon "tickets," from which our 
own word "etiquette." 

In the inmost chambers of the palace, and only to 
be approached by special privilege, were the royal 
apartments — the audience room and the bedroom 
with its famous ante-chamber, this last the place 
where the court awaited the rising and the going to 
bed of the sovereign. Eor you must know that 
royalty could not wrap the drapery of its couch 
about it in privacy and lie down to pleasant dreams. 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 173 

l)iit must needs be put to bed and tucked in accord- 
ing to rules of "etiquette." "Ushers arrange the 
crowd/' says the historian, describing the scene, 
"while the king washes his hands and begins his 
toilet. Two pages remove his slippers; the grand 
master of the wardrobe takes his night shirt by the 
right sleeve, the first valet of the wardrobe by the 
left sleeve. They pull it off and hand it to a valet 
to be carried away, while still another valet ap- 
proaches with a shirt. This is the solemn moment, 
the culminating point of the whole pompous 
absurdity. The honor of presenting the shirt is 
reserved for the sons and grandsons of France (i. e. 
of the king, who regards himself as France), or in 
their absence, for the princes of the royal blood, or 
in their absence, for the grand chamberlain or the 
first gentleman. When the king has taken his shirt, 
the whole court is introduced in the fifth and last 
entree, and the toilet proceeds." 

How little the king and his courtiers in their arti- 
ficial life thought of the common people by whose 
labor they were fed and clothed. But a reckoning 
time was coming, and in this very palace. I^ot in 
the days of Louis the Grand, for he died peacefully 
in his royal bed with his court about him, and was 
gathered to his fathers after the longest reign in 
history. His successor unwittingly predicted the 
fate of the kingdom when he cried out in revelry, 
"After us the deluge." And the deluge came, just 
seventy-five years after Louis the Great laid down 
his scepter. It roared through France and beat 



174 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

upon the palace walls of Versailles till the inmost 
chambers were finally filled with its turbid waters. 
When the king would not hear the cry of the com- 
mon people for justice, they rose in their blind 
might and went to Versailles. Ten thousand men 
who had lived on black bread while the fruits of 
their labor went to build palaces and feed a prole- 
tariat nobility, and ten thousand women Avhose lives 
for the most part were cast in the streets of Paris, 
surged out along the highways that led to Ver- 
sailles, overran the guards at the gates, and 
mounted the stairway to the very chambers of the 
queen. Then royalty fled from its splendid palace 
while the corridors ran blood. The calendar 
counted but a few months from that frightful day 
till nobility was banished over the borders and the 
heads of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette fell 
under the guillotine in their own capital city. 

So much for the history of Versailles. The palace 
of the kings is open now to whosoever will, and the 
chambers where king and courtier held levee under 
strictest rules of etiquette are thronged day after 
day by tourists who look and gape and laugh, and 
pass on, scarce knowing, most of them, whence came 
the palaces or who were the Bourbon kings. 

At the Versailles station we found ourselves 
once more in the tourist tide, for this was one 
of the rare days when the fountains of the park 
played, and Paris had turned out to see the 
sight. Before reaching the great palace, however, 
we turned aside to visit the Tennis Court, situated 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 175 

in an alley of the town, not far from the entrance 
to the joalace grounds, a building used once for the 
game of that name, but become famous as the cradle 
of the Revolution. Here the Third Estate convened 
when they were denied their rights in the Estates 
General during the fateful days of May, 1789. And 
here, under the leadership of Mirabeau and others, 
they resolved never to adjourn till they had given 
France a new constitution. The Tennis Court 
marks the first open clash of the King and his peo- 
ple in that great conflict which was to see the King 
beheaded and the people given over to the orgies 
of The Terror. 

Continuing our way to the square before the en- 
trance to the grounds, we took lunch in the open 
air under the trees, and regaled ourselves while a 
street minstrel played "After the Ball" for our de- 
lectation. We wondered if the Paris fashions are 
as antiquated when they reach America as our 
"latest'' songs are when they reach Paris. 

The palace, like most abodes of past royalty, has 
become a museum and picture gallery. Here and 
there are to be seen vestiges of its former tenants — 
the bed on which Louis the Great died and the clock 
which ticked away his last hours; the tiny cham- 
bers of Marie Antoinette, much as she left them 
that day the mob thrust itself so rudely in. All 
else is lost in the lethe of a museum. The "Hall of 
Battles" is perhaps the most impressive part of the 
art collection, its walls adorned with heroic paint- 
ings of the martial victories of Erance from Charles 



176 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

Martel to Napoleon. But what mockery tlie Eates 
sometimes carry in their tangled skein — it was in 
this very hall that "William of Prnssia was pro- 
claimed Emperor of Germany in 1870, after he had 
captured the Erench Emperor and his army^ occu- 
pied the capital, and exacted of the conquered peo- 
ple as indemnity a prince's estate and a nation's for- 
tune. 

Out in front of the palace is the magnificent park 
which the king laid out for the delectation of his 
mistress. It stretches away to the sunrise over 
countless acres, adorned with fountains and lakes, 
cut by bosky avenues where marble statues lurk in 
shady depths, as if the fauns and dryads had re- 
turned to their ancient haunts once more. It 
spreads into forests of noble trees where you come 
unawares upon grottoes and trysting places such as 
Pan and the nymphs must have delighted to visit 
in mythological days. The fountains are supplied 
mth water from a distance of six miles, and so great 
is the volume that an hour's playing costs two thou- 
sand dollars. It is a rare spectacle to see twenty 
thousand persons in gala dress seated upon the 
grassy slope that circles like an amphitheater about 
the seventy-six fountains of the basin of E'eptune, 
and to hear the shout from a thousand throats as 
the waters leap up trembling white as snow against 
the background of foliage and blue sky. 

Across the forest are the Great Trianon and the 
Little Trianon, two smaller palaces built by Louis 
XIY and Louis XV respectively. In the latter 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 177 

Marie Antoinette spent most of her time. The vis- 
itor is shown her bed hung with gold-embroidered 
tapestry and the piano she was wont to play. In the 
wood near by is her "hamlet/' a group of some half- 
dozen thatched roof cottages with an old water mill. 
Here the Queen and her ladies used to come when 
life in the palace grew too irksome, and here they 
played at milkmaid and shepherdess to while away 
the time — a pleasant variation no doubt from hav- 
ing to dress in the presence of a whole court. 

So we spent our days in Paris, dividing our time 
between the living and the dead, between the city's 
present and its past, gathering of its fact and its 
fiction, watching its comedy and its tragedy — until 
the days of our stay were run out. Then we turned 
our faces toward the world's greatest city. 



12 



CHAPTEK XI 

ON ENGLISH SOIL 

And now, after many happy days of camping on 
the trail of history, the Continent lay behind us, its 
shadowy shore-line swallowed up in the mists of the 
stormy Channel. As we sat there upon the steamer 
deck watching it recede across the widening gulf of 
waters, gentle Memory took us by the hand and 
turning led swiftly down the slope of years, l^o 
longer were we travelers in foreign lands, but chil- 
dren of the wayside school, untutored of any travel 
beyond the country-side, eager for something of 
that great world which lay beyond and building up 
about the thumb-worn pages of our history and 
geography that world as our fancy pictured it. And 
what a world it was — more grotesque and wonder- 
ful than any that Alice ever found in Wonder- 
land, — ^where everything was different from our 
v/orld, even the fruits and flowers and trees, where 
men dressed in quaint fashion and spoke in the 
speech of books, where even the routine of life was 
tinged with romance and lifted into the realm of 
story. Such was the Europe of our childish fancy. 
And we fondly dreamed that should we ever have 
the fortune to set foot upon its magic soil a revolu- 
tion would mark the event in our lives, much as if 
we had landed upon a distant planet. But now we 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 179 

had come and looked upon this magic land, and 
henceforward it was to be for us but a part and 
parcel of the earth, its scenes terrestrial and its men 
and women mortals like ourselves. 'No magic change 
had marked in us our advent upon the Old World 
shores, so gently, as we crossed the waters, had 
fancy adjusted to itself the garb of fact. Our jour- 
ney had meant for us at once a gain and loss. The 
halo which had hung about the old world was gone 
forever. That much we set down on the side of loss, 
for is not realization always a sort of loss? Did we 
not count it so when Santa Claus became a reality, 
however beautiful his gifts were afterward? And 
the spirit-haunted nooks of our childhood world, did 
they not bear for us a value which vanished the mo- 
ment the veil was brushed aside? And shall not 
many of us feel a secret pang of loss when the last 
ice-bound fjord has been charted and the last jungle 
explored — when over the last foot of earth and 
fathom of water shall wave the banner of fact, and 
there shall not remain a single corner of the globe 
that we may people at will with gnomes and elves 
and dragons and sea-serpents and all the creatures 
that never were? There are some values not con- 
sidered in offices of realty nor in the fixing of as- 
sizes, and yet they are values of great worth. There 
are realms where the fancy may roam at its own 
sweet will untrammeled by chain and compass — 
Robinson Crusoe's Islands and Eorests of Arden, in 
whose dells and wooded aisles our spirits may find 
retreat from the burden and heat of a practical 



180 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

world. And shall we not count it a loss when sucli 
a realm is forfeited to the stern rule of fact, and 
the garish light has forever banished every flitting 
spirit ? 

So we mused as we saw the Europe of our dreams 
give place to the real Europe. But one may "find 
in loss a gain to match." There was a profit to be 
set down, too, a great one. "We had lost the land of 
fancy. We had found the land of history. Caesar 
and Cicero, Raphael and Angelo, Savonarola and 
Luther were no longer names adorning a chronicle, 
but men who had lived and ^vrought among men. 
We had walked in ways that had looked upon them, 
we had come upon their very footprints on the sands 
of time, we had learned to feel as well as to know 
that these men and their fellow-workers had done 
mighty things in their day. And thereby we had 
learned to estimate more fully what labor and sacri- 
fice and suffering were cast into the foundation 
of that civilization whose fair upper stories we oc- 
cupy in peace and prosperity to-day. We had come 
into vital touch with the past, and felt it beneath us 
as an integral part of our life. And that was a 
great accomplishment — a profit which more than 
met the loss. 

But we were not yet done with the Old- World 
story, for all its shores had dropped beneath our 
horizon. We had read through with delight the 
illustrated pages of its long biography, but ere the 
end there was a luminous appendix, without which 
the story would not be complete. Wise men, who 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 181 

claim acquaintance with unrecorded things, tell us 
that in the long ago there was no English Channel, 
■ but that the British Isles were the western pier of 
Euro]3e. And for all the stormy waters that sep- 
arate these shores to-day, the story of the Isles is in- 
dissolubly bound with the story of the Old World 
main. And in the island story^ which lay before us, 
were to be found the same lights and shadows that 
had touched the earlier chapters, revived perhaps by 
a fling of the wild salt spray. 

As we crossed the Channel a slight squall drove 
us below decks, and when we came out again the 
long waving line of the English coast lay before us, 
with the hills swelling away in green billows be- 
yond. Surely no traveler of Saxon stock can ap- 
proach these shores without peculiar emotion. We 
travel in continental lands, and make them ours by 
conquest. But this land is ours through inheritance, 
and we come to it as to our own. It is all the land 
we children of the 'New World had before James- 
town and Plymouth Rock. Its speech is ours. Its 
history is ours. Its very names are echoed in our 
western home — York and Richmond and Lancaster, 
Surrey and Sussex and Essex, Cambridge and Ches- 
ter and Lincoln. Its soil has nurtured the roots of 
our family trees. Its stories have fed our childish 
fancy. We approach it as children approach the 
ancestral home whose tradition they have rever- 
ently cherished. 

A little cloud it was — these islands — ^which slowly 
rose in the world's western sky long ago, no bigger 



182 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

tlian a man's hand. But that cloud has grown till 
now there is not a land under the heavens upon 
which its shadow does not fall. It was to these 
shores the sturdy Angles and Danes and Saxons 
came when the world was young, boldly crossing the 
northern sea in their viking ships to find a home 
and afterward to found an empire. On this island 
stage it was that William the Conqueror played out 
his mighty act, sword and buckler in hand; fol- 
lowed in successive scenes of the drama by men 
who helped to shape world destinies. Here the bat- 
tle for freedom of body and of soul was slowly 
fought and won. This little plot of sea-girt soil 
gave birth to Chaucer and Shakespeare and Milton, 
to ]^ewton and Darwin and Spencer, to Burke and 
Pitt and Gladstone, and to a host whose names shine 
well-nigh as bright in the galaxies of the great. A 
Httle land, but a mighty people — earth's garden- 
spot of souls. Such thoughts as these came surging 
through our minds as we drew near to English lands, 
and set foot upon the soil of our fathers. 

How glad we were to hear once more our mother 
tongue about us. It was welcome enough even in 
the broad brogue of John Bull, after the jargon of 
the continent. There is scarcely need yet of an 
English-American dictionary, though the speech of 
the two peoples is beginning to diverge at points — 
for example, the Englishman carries his gums on his 
feet, the American has his in his mouth; the 
Britisher puts his luggage in the van, the American 
puts his baggage in the baggage-car; the former 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 183 

has shops and goes shopping, the latter has stores but 
never goes storing; the English summer is followed 
bj autumn, the American usually by fall; the Eng- 
lishman asks for his letters, the American calls for 
his mail; we have many decayed things in America, 
but as yet no ^^decayed gentle-ladies." There is just 
enough difference of speech withal to keep the trav- 
eler alert. 

Our port of entry was New Haven, and our road 
to London through the counties of Sussex and Sur- 
rey. The afternoon sun, breaking through the 
clouds, lent to the landscape a soft radiance as we 
passed along. In the foreground field and fence 
sparkled with trembling raindrops. Beyond on the 
gentle slopes of the Downs flocks and herds were 
grazing. Fields of green were interspersed with 
fields of golden stubble where the new-cut grain was 
heaped in shocks. Across meadow and lea ran well- 
kept roads shut in by trim hedges, and smart turn- 
outs dotted the way. Here and there a cluster of 
trees under the shadow of which cattle rested, and 
a rare cottage nestling among the Downs. Order 
and thrift marked the country-side. It has been 
aptly said that England is the best groomed country 
in the world. Certainly it looks like a park when 
compared with America. It is the difference be- 
tween a garden and a ranch. But how long it has 
been since the Downs were rescued from the wil- 
derness by Alfred and his yeomen ! Some day ours 
shall be an old land, too, and if we are wise that 
shall be a hale and beautiful old age. 



184 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

An hour's run through these rural scenes, and 
the advent of factories told that we were nearing 
the metropolis — for you must not forget that with 
all her history and her thirty-two million people, 
England is no larger in area than 'New York or 
ISTorth Carolina. Our train halted on one of the 
Thames bridges while the guards collected tickets, 
and we were thus introduced to the famous river. 
Inspection done, we drew into Victoria Station, and 
were soon in the hackney's hands. A spin past 
Buckingham Palace and Park, down Piccadilly by 
Charing Cross and the British Museum, a fare and 
a tip to the driver on Brunswick Square, and we 
were under the roof of our London hostess — for 
here again, being disciples of the simple life, we 
chose the pension rather than the hotel, and had no 
cause to regret it. The world's greatest city was 
before us, and we were eager to set about its ex- 
ploration. 

"The proper way to see London is from the top 
of a bus, sir," said Dr. Samuel Johnson. And surely 
there is no higher authority on the way to see the 
great city. At any rate, we accepted his advice, and 
set out to explore England's capital from the top of 
a bus. It is a cheap and handy way of sight-seeing, 
two qualities which commend it at once to the 
American. To get a bus you walk out into the 
street and step on — a pleasant variation from our 
Paris experience. There is a constant stream of 
these conveyances on the principal ways, and the 
conductors are hanging from the steps to solicit 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 185 

your patronage. "Seat, sir ?" is the invitation that 
strikes your ear through the bustle of the thorough- 
fare, and it is reinforced by a smiling face. London 
is a living witness that rudeness is not essential to 
the effective handling of a public. We never saw 
the least discourtesy or impatience to passengers on 
the part of any public servant. 

You want to get on top of the bus if the weather 
is fair. Everybody rides on top in London, men 
and women, young and old. At first it seemed to us 
a curious place for a lady in theater dress, but we 
soon grew accustomed to the sight of a belle and a 
wash-woman side by side on the tip-top of a bus 
drifting leisurely down the stream which flows 
through London streets. Your fare is a penny, and 
you ride as far as you please. Once seated, the 
whole street is before you. As far as the eye can 
reach that stream of vehicles is flowing on, most 
of them, like your own, topheavy with humanity, 
till it looks as if the street had a moving second 
story. Only here and there the stream is blocked, 
where a policeman raises his arm at a crossing to let 
the counter current have its way for a season. And 
how quickly that sign is heeded ! ^o matter how 
great the crush, not a wheel crosses the invisible 
line till the signal is given. The arm is raised and 
the current stops; the arm falls, and the current 
flows on. Such is law and order as practiced on the 
streets of the world's most populous city. 

And that city — how is the transient visitor to 
get a conception of it as a whole ? It has a popula- 



186 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

tion of more than five million, and covers some 
seventy-five thousand acres. Think of all the people 
of Virginia, N'orth Carolina, and South Carolina 
crowded together in one corner of a county, living 
and doing business there, and you have some idea of 
London. But they seem to get on wonderfully well 
in their close quarters, better than we do with all 
our elbow-room. 

The visitor is impressed with the ease with which 
the great city handles itself. We traveled about 
London four days without so much as seeing a 
street-car, though they are to be found in some 
parts of the city. As for elevated roads, they are 
not in Europe, so far as our experience went. What 
a relief that must be to those who have lived in ISTew 
York or Chicago, where the elevated runs over 
the roof, the electric by the front door, and the 
subway through the cellar. How are the crowds 
handled then? By cabs and busses. London does 
the largest business of any city in the world, and 
her distances are perhaps the greatest. Yet there 
is never any rush through her streets. If you are 
going a short distance, you board a bus and pay 
your penny, or call a cab and pay your shilling. If 
you have a long way to go you drop down an ele- 
vator to one of the underground roads, and shoot 
through the darkness. But these lines are buried 
deep enough not to disturb the city. We found 
the train ninety-four feet below the surface one day 
when we wanted to cross the city quickly. This 
was the splendid new road which the Londoner call? 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 187 

^^the tube/' a double tunnel running under the city 
from the Bank of England to Shepherd's Bush, with 
trains every minute or two. As we were after see- 
ing the city, however, and not after covering dis- 
tance, we usually chose bus or cab instead of the 
underground. 

We spent eight days in the English capital, just 
time enough to get a bird's-eye view of what is to 
be seen there — some one has said that you have to 
live in London to know it. 

And even residence does not carry with it a 
guarantee of acquaintanceship. A young man of 
our acquaintance who had spent his entire life there 
had never been in the South Kensington Museum 
or the Crystal Palace. It is doubtful if many even 
of the oldest citizens know the town. Lord Macau- 
lay said that he had walked through every street of 
the London of his day; but it would take a good 
part of one's life to perform that feat now. 

London is full of sights. The problem before 
the tourist is what to see and what to leave unseen, 
for even to touch all the places of interest in the 
short space of a summer tour is out of the ques- 
tion. Some of the things that Baedeker stars must 
be passed over; but there are some that no vis- 
itor can afford to neglect. One of these is the 
Tower. Built first by William the Conqueror as a 
royal residence, it was destined to play its part in 
history as a prison of state rather than a residence 
of kings. It is a symbol to-day of tragedy and 
pathos. About its somber towers have hung more 



188 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

clouds of England's history than about any other 
spot in the realm. To how many a brilliant life has 
it marked the end as a dark punctuation. It was in 
one of the towers that the young princess met their 
mysterious fate at the hands of their uncle, Richard 
III, in those days when the way to the English 
throne was so often marked with blood. Here Sir 
Thomas More and Sir Walter Raleigh met ignomin- 
ious deaths at the block. Here Catherine Howard 
and Anne Boleyn, two of England's queens, suffered 
the same fate. From one of those inner windows 
poor Lady Jane Grey, the nine days' queen, looked 
out upon her husband as he passed to execution, and 
then followed him. English, French and Scotch 
kings have been imprisoned here. In the little 
church, the prison cemetery, one comes upon many 
historic names. "There is no sadder spot on earth 
than this little cemetery," says Macaulay. "Death 
is there associated, not, as in Westminster Abbey 
and St. Paul's, with genius and virtue, — but with the 
savage triumph of implacable enemies, with the in- 
constancy, the ingratitude, the cowardice of friends, 
with all the miseries of fallen greatness and of 
blighted fame." 

As if to relieve the somber story, there have been 
set in one of the upper chambers the crown jewels 
of the realm, the most gorgeous array of gold and 
precious gems on earth, the symbols of success and 
power, crowns and diadems and scepters that have 
played their part in the pomp and circumstance of 
the island story these five hundred years and more, 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 189 

diamonds and rubies without number, any one of 
which would command a king's ransom were it ever 
to escape from its prison here — and round about 
this royal hoard a squad of scarlet-liveried guards, 
for one at least of these crowns has been stolen in 
its time. 

Another place which even the tourist of a day 
must see is Westminster Abbey. The foundations 
of this building too are laid deep in the soil of Eng- 
lish story; indeed, no one can tell when first a 
church was erected on this site, so long has it been 
consecrated ground. The present structure dates 
substantially from the reign of Henry III, and is 
therefore seven centuries old. Our first visit was 
on Sunday at the hour of morning worship — for the 
stranger must remember that this 'is primarily a 
place of worship and secondarily a place of sepul- 
ture. The occasion was deeply impressive. The 
ancient Abbey is filled with the monuments and 
tombs of those who have helped to make England 
great in the long course of history. Looking down 
upon us from their marble pedestals, as we sat in 
the pews, were Gladstone and his great opponent 
Disraeli, and near them were Pitt and Peel; over 
in the poets' corner lay Tennyson and Bro^vning and 
Dryden; nor far from them sleep Darwin and E'ew- 
ton; then those who have written their names with 
the sword instead of the pen. Across in the chapels 
rest the kings and queens of England, Elizabeth 
and Mary Stuart sleeping peacefully under the same 
roof "after life's fitful fever"; then the Henries 



190 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

and Edwards and Georges — most of the monuments 
mutilated more or less during the storm that raged 
round the Commonwealth. The Abbey is the Wal- 
halla of English letters. And yet some of England's 
most distinguished sons found sepulture elsewhere. 
You look here in vain for the tombs of Shakespeare 
and Milton, Byron and Shelley and Keats, Coleridge 
and Wordsworth, Carlyle and Euskin. And many 
lie entombed within the Abbey whose names have 
been long buried under the dust of ages. So imper- 
fect is the judgment which men pass upon their 
fellows. 

As we sat in the dim light of the great nave with 
the heroes of the ages sleeping about us, the 
preacher ascended to the sacred desk, and began the 
service. The voices of the choir rose through the 
heavy silence of the place, and melted away beneath 
the pillared vaults. ^Never before had the ritual 
of the English church seemed to us so solemn — 
here amid this history made visible in stone, in the 
shadow of Henry's and of Mary's tomb, it found its 
fit setting. The text was appropriate : "And I saw 
the dead, small and great, stand before God." 
While he spoke of that final assembly, the sunlight 
striking in through the high windows fell upon the 
speaker and his audience, and touched the tombs of 
the mighty into soft radiance. As we looked up at 
the marble features of the great and around at the 
mobile faces of the small who for one hour were 
gathered in that presence, a new meaning was 
breathed into the text. Though men may stand 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 191 

together, then and now, there shall always be great 
and small, even in the eyes of an All-Father. A 
few dollars and days had brought that throng of 
men beside the tomb of Gladstone, but to stand with 
him, to see as he saw and feel as he felt, was not 
given to them. "You shall not come nearer to a 
man by getting into his house." 

Surely there is no more fitting link in the chain 
of travel after Westminster Abbey than Windsor 
Castle — the one where English rank and royalty 
come to birth and rule, the other where their dust 
is sacredly inurned. Windsor is some twenty-five 
miles by coach or train from London, and is 
altogether the most imposing royal residence in the 
world. A huge turreted and battlemented pile of 
granite, it crowns an eminence overlooking the 
Thames and a far stretch of England's fairest and 
most famous country-side. It dates back to the 
time of William the Conqueror, and has been a 
home of rulers through all those centuries. As you 
approach it, towering there against the sky, with the 
little village of its name huddled at its feet, leave 
guide-books with their data aside for the moment 
and drop back to the ages out of which it came. 
Think of it, not as the palace from which a gentle 
queen looked out upon the longest and most peace- 
ful reign of history, but as the castle from which 
feudal lords looked out upon lands of uncertain 
tenure, and from which they held sway by force of 
marshaled men. As you come beneath its shadow, 
the centuries roll back the scroll, and you look upon 



192 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

those early chapters that were written Avith the 
sword's point dipped in blood. Here is the village 
of vassals gathered under the protection of 
castle walls. Above on the battlements armed 
knights keep guard. Thither come the lesser lords 
who hold the lands in fief, to pay their tribute and 
homage to the chief, and thence the assembled yeo- 
men sally forth with long-bow and spear to battle 
against all claimants to the land. You can almost 
hear the winding of the bugle float out upon the 
waiting air. Thus in company with the past you 
mount the way that leads to the ramparts above, 
and look upon the landscape that stretches away to 
the level horizon. It is dotted with prosperous vil- 
lages that no longer need a beetling castle for pro- 
tection, and scattered with fertile farms whose 
tillers are no more servile vassals — a land of united, 
sovereign people. And standing there between the 
past and present of that "rough island story,'' you 
may meditate with profit upon the marvelous pro- 
gress which is its distinguishing mark. The stories 
of Greece and Kome each fall within a millennium. 
But fifteen hundred years have passed since the 
first chapters of English history were made; and 
so far yet are the feeble chapters of a nation's 
decline from being recorded there that she still re- 
mains "a power which has dotted over the surface 
of the whole globe with her possessions and military 
posts, whose morning drum-beat, following the sun, 
and keeping company with the hours, circles the 
earth with one continuous and unbroken strain of 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 193 

earth with one continuous and unbroken strain of 
the martial airs of England.'' Such may be "Wind- 
sor's chief service to the visitor — to act as a vantage 
ground from which he may look out over vast 
stretches of history, and looking may get a larger, a 
saner, a more tolerant view of the things that have 
been done ; a happier and more hopeful view of the 
things that yet remain. 

And when the retrospect is ended, he may pass 
into the Castle and walk through the halls where so 
many of England's rulers have been nourished. 
He may go down into St. George's Chapel and look 
upon the tomb of Henry VIII, or stand beside the 
spot where the headless body of Charles I was laid 
at the end of a tragic act of history. Crossing over 
to the vaults of Albert Chapel, he may find the 
sepulchres of other kings, among them that George 
whom Patrick Henry declared might profit by cer- 
tain examples. And taking up the thread which 
Atropos severed here at this tomb, he may follow 
it back a little, if he will, as we wander through the 
royal grounds. At the end of the Long Walk, 
which stretches away through the Great Park to the 
south of Windsor like a line of light, we shall come 
upon an equestrian statue of this king in his 
triumph; and hidden in secluded spot the retreat 
where he found refuge in the days of his mental 
darkness. So do the Fates spin out the thread even 
of a royal life, and dye it bright or dark, and clip it. 

The park itself is a charming place, its driveways 
set on either side with noble oaks and elms, its paths 
13 



194 AVITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

losing tliemselves among beeches and yew-trees 
under whose broad branches herds of deer are feed- 
ing. There are trees here that are older than the 
story of Jamestown. And in the heart of this leafy 
depth you may come upon Virginia water^ if you 
wander so far — a lake set here like a mirror in 
emerald. 

So, through these quiet hours at "Windsor, the 
thoughtful tourist will come closer to the springs of 
English life. I^or yet is he done with this little 
plot of countryside. Descending from the Castle 
and crossing the bridge under which flows the 
sparkling Thames, you come to Eton College, and 
to one of the elements of England's strength. 
Here her youth have been trained since half a cen- 
tury before Columbus came upon a new world. 
How deep the traditions of valor and nobility have 
been laid these six hundred years ! Wellington and 
Gladstone and Kingsley were tutored here. Upon 
the walls are written in stone and bronze the names 
of Eton's sons who have eminently served their 
country in peace and in war. To live among such 
memories were half an education in itself. 

Erom Eton we drove across country three miles 
to Stoke Poges to visit the tomb of Gray and the 
churchyard made famous by the ^^Elegy." It was 
afternoon as we drove along the quiet road that 
leads through fields and under the broad-spreading 
branches of ancient trees. The sunbeams struck 
slant through the treetops, and the thrushes were 
singing their vesper song. In a field by the road- 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 195 

side a group of laborers were resting under the 
shadow of a stack of grain. A hare crossed the 
roadway and disappeared in the hedge. Scarce a 
zephyr stirred the leaves, and nature seemed to be 
in a sort of reverie. We drew rein in the forest 
where a footpath turns off from the highway, and 
alighting followed the path till we came to a turn- 
style. From a cottage hid among the leaves a 
young girl came out, and directed us, at the same 
time offering for sale copies of the "Elegy." 
Beyond we caught sight of the churchyard dotted 
with ivy-covered stones, and in the background the 
vine-clad church with the famous yew-tree beside it. 
A few visitors were scattered among the graves as 
we approached, but they soon retired, and left the 
sacred spot to us. We passed with reverent step 
among the graves where "the rude forefathers of 
the hamlet sleep," and stood with uncovered head 
beneath "that yew-tree's shade" "where heaves the 
turf in many a mouldering heap." 'Near by the 
church wall is the common grave of the poet and 
his mother. 'No epitaph marks his resting-place, 
but on the marble slab which covers them are the 
mother's name and these words of tribute from the 
son, "the careful, tender mother of many children, 
one alone of whom had the misfortune to survive 
her." A tablet on the church wall tells that the 
poet too lies here. An imposing monument has 
been erected in the park beyond^ but the "Country 
Churchyard" will ever be the truest monument to 
the memory of Thomas Gray. It alone can breathe 



196 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

the spirit of his life and works. Here are to be 
found that perfect peace and repose, that reverent 
melancholy, that reticence, and that spirit of silent 
worship which marked his life. If the sins and 
sorrows of society find reflection in Byron's 
writings, if the romance of the Scotch landscape and 
the serene beauty of the Lake Country are caught 
in the works of Scott and of Wordsworth, certainly 
the spirit of Stoke Poges churchyard is breathed 
into the writings of Gray. So genius consecrates 
a common plot of earth. 

We lingered about the place as the shadows 
lengthened. We entered the little chapel and saw 
the pew in which the poet was wont to worship, as 
also the pew which the descendants of William 
Penn are used to occupy. And as we came out 
again, the good woman who serves here as guardian 
broke for us a sprig of the aged yew, which is laid 
away in a copy of the ^^Elegy" for remembrance. 
The sexton led us to a spot from which the great 
tree could be seen in all its majesty, and as we stood 
among the waving grass he told us the legends of 
the place. And when the stooping sun had begun 
to gather up his spent shafts, we turned our faces 
homeward, feeling that henceforward we should be 
at home in at least one spot of English letters. 

'Next day we set for exploration of the Thames. 
You would never know it here in London for the 
limpid stream that reflects the towers of Windsor, 
so sluggish and murky it is when it has bathed the 
great city. It is a huge open sewer. Surely the 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 197 

Alpheus could not have been more foul when it had 
been turned through the Augean stables. But for 
all that, it is one of London's chief highways, 
and two lines of boats run on it night and 
day to accommodate the travel. We took passage 
at one of the upper piers, and steamed down the 
black, ill-smelling little stream past Waterloo 
Bridge and under London Bridge where the gory 
heads of criminals iised to be aired on pikes, under 
the shadow of the Tower^ beneath Tower Bridge, 
and out into the waters where the shipping of the 
world is done. The East India and the West India 
docks lie beside the river here — whence the city 
draws its commercial life. The stream is thronged 
with craft coming from every quarter of the globe, 
and from the cargoes that they bring there is 
gathered in here an annual revenue of fifty million 
dollars, almost as much as at all the other British 
ports combined. Passing the docks we landed at a 
pier that bears a world-famous name — Greenwich. 
If you have forgotten, call back in memory to the 
first school days and the maps on whose margin the 
numbers read so many degrees from Greenwich. 
This is the spot. We had almost expected to find 
a dark line running through it with a zero hanging 
to either end, but no visible mark serves to tell you 
that you stand on the spot from which the world 
takes its bearings, and where a stop-watch is daily 
held upon Apollo and his fiery steeds as they race 
upon their course around the earth. But on a 
gentle hill that slopes away from the river stands 



198 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

the rojal observatory, where among other things 
time is calculated for the watches of the kingdom 
and telegraphed abroad at noon each day. You 
may see the face of the clock that carries this tem- 
poral burden on its hands, and set your own chro- 
nometer in accordance. You may also see there 
just how much a standard inch or foot or yard is in 
the realm. 

Returning to the city, we passed through the old 
fish-market, Billingsgate, become proverbial for the 
foul and vicious speech of its people — so do our words 
betray us. 

The collections of art and archaeology here will 
always claim a share of the tourist's time, and they 
well repay it. However many galleries one may 
have seen on the continent, the London collections 
cannot be passed by without loss. England has ap- 
preciated the work of her masters enough to keep 
it at home, and if you would see the best specimens 
of English art you must go to English galleries. 

We visited the British Museum time and again. 
It is the finest collection of its kind ever gotten 
together under one roof, representing everything 
from the first printed Bible and the oldest manu- 
scripts to the mummies of Egyptian kings. We 
looked upon the shrunken face of a man who is 
said to have lived seven thousand years before the 
Christian era. What was the speech of that long 
palsied tongue, and how did the world look to those 
eyes? — for they beheld an age that was "ancient his- 
tory to Noah. 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 199 

One grows weary witli simply walking through 
the collections of the Museum. The first room we 
came upon was of great interest. It was the auto- 
graph room. Side by side we saw letters from 
Charles V, Peter the Great, Louis the Great, Fred- 
erick the Great, and E'apoleon. Near them were 
two signatures of Victoria; one at the age of four, 
just the name stiffly marked on a piece of common 
paper, the other when she had been fifty years 
queen. There are letters from Luther and Galileo 
and Angelo. The last letter Dickens ever wrote 
is there; and one from John Keats a few months 
before his untimely death. A letter from Browning 
will bear quotation. He writes: "I can have little 
doubt but that my writing has been in the main 
too hard for many I should have been pleased to 
communicate with; but I never designedly tried to 
puzzle people, as some of my critics have supposed. 
On the other hand, I never pretended to offer such 
literature as should be a substitute for a cigar or a 
game of dominoes to an idle man; so perhaps, on 
the. whole, I get my deserts and something more — • 
not a crowd, but a few I value more." 

In another room you come upon the famous 
Rosetta stone, found some hundred years ago near 
the E-osetta mouth of the Nile — a rough block of 
common stone, but more precious than any that was 
ever polished on lapidary's wheel, for it holds the 
key to almost the entire field of ancient history. 
One of its faces bears a triple inscription in Greek 
and in the learned and the popular character of 



200 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

ancient Egypt. Until by the aid of the Greek in- 
scription Champollion decij)liered the Egyptian 
characters and thus discovered the hieroglyphic lan- 
guage, the scrolls of E'ebuchadnezzar, the tablets 
of ancient Babylon, and the writings on the tombs of 
Egypt were as so many scratches. ;N"ow they are 
history. But time would fail to tell of all the 
treasures that have been gathered here — the scat- 
tered fragments of the ages which we diligently 
piece together into an imperfect story of the past. 

One of the most deKghtful of excursions is that to 
Hampton Court, some ten miles up the Thames. 
You can go by water or across country. We took 
"the tube" one morning to Shepherd's bush, and 
made the rest of the way by tram and bus. Every 
mile of the road is full of interest. Eirst you come 
to the royal gardens of Xew^ one of the most beau- 
tiful open-air conservatories in the realm. Just 
beyond is Twickenham, the home of Pope; and 
across the river, Richmond with its splendid park, 
once the abode of English royalty. Near by is the 
villa of Horace Walpole. And a short ride through 
field and hamlet brings you before the palace of 
Hampton Court. English history has eddied more 
than once about this palace. It was built by the 
ill-starred Cardinal Wolsey, and filched from him 
by Henry VIII under the guise of a voluntary 
present. How truly the politic old prelate said 
when he had fallen upon evil days, "Had I but 
served my God with half the zeal I served my king, 
He would not in mine age have left me naked to 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 201 

Cromwell resided here, and here 
upon occasion the kings and queens from Stuart to 
Hanover made their home. William III lost his 
life in the park, thrown from his horse. The 
Hampton Court Conference, famous in ecclesiasti- 
cal history, was held here in the reign of James I. 
But Hampton Court has now been given over to 
pensioners of the Crown. The grounds and park, 
though not so extensive as those of Windsor, are 
even more beautiful. The profusion of flowers, the 
sward running away under ancient trees to where 
the Thames flows by, make a setting that would 
have rejoiced Watteau. In the Pond Garden the 
visitor is shown under glass a royal grape vine 
nearly a century and a half old, with great black 
bunches of luscious grapes hanging amid the 
foliage. This single vine furnishes for the royal 
table half a ton of grapes each year. 

Back in London once more, we drove across town 
to the little chapel in City Koad where John Wesley 
was wont to preach in the latter years of his life, 
what time he was not preaching up and down the 
land — this first great itinerant of modern times. 
Next door to the chapel are the apartments he oc- 
cupied, all the home this childless, worse than 
widowed man could claim. You may see them to- 
day — his bedroom and workroom, and the little 
closet room he set aside for prayer. How suggestive 
of his life, for his days were consumed in work and 
prayer — this man who was altogether the greatest 



202 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

single spiritual force in England of the eighteenth 
century. Here he labored for the last twelve years 
of his life, and here at the ripe age of eighty- 
eight he died with the harness on, having unwit- 
tingly founded a great church. In the rear of 
the chapel — the shrine of Methodism — is his grave, 
the simple shaft which marks it bearing this in- 
scription, ^This great light arose (by the singular 
providence of God), to enlighten these nations." 
Here under the open sky with a few of his faith- 
ful followers about him lies this plain preacher, 
who might fitly have found sepulture with kings 
in Westminster. For, as one of his biogra- 
phers has said: "That century was rich in names 
the world calls great — great generals like Marlbor- 
ough, great monarchs like Frederick, great statesmen 
like Chatham and Burke, poets and critics like Pope 
and Johnson and Lessing, writers who helped revolu- 
tionize society like Voltaire and Rousseau; but run 
over the whole list, and where among them all is 
the man whose motives were so pure, whose life 
was so unselfish, whose character was so spotless. 
And where among them all is the man whose in- 
fluence — social, moral, religious — was productive of 
such vast good and of so little evil, as that exerted 
by this plain man !" 

So our days in London passed. And when our 
time to go had come, we felt that we had had but 
glimpses of the city, and that London was as yet to 
us an unknown quantity. But time pressed, and 
Scotland lay between us and our ship — Scotland 
with its song and story. So we bade adieu to the 
great city, and turned our faces to the north. 



CHAPTEE XII 

COLLEGE ANU CATHEDRAL TOWERS 

It has been said that Shakespeare's plays are the 
best English history ever written. And the saying 
is not far from true, after all, for though the plays 
do not give dates and name individuals as the 
chronicles do, they reflect the character of the 
English people in its varied phases — without which 
quality no chronicle can rightly be called history. 
Romeo and Juliet represent the fire of the heart; 
Macbeth, the vaulting ambition; Richard the 
Third, the cruelty; King Lear, the scheming and 
sorrow; The Tempest, the high idealism, that 
have vitalized English chronicle in its long course. 
The plays are the history of the people epitomized. 

In just as true a sense one may read in the 
college and cathedral towers of the Isle the history 
of the people, in its broad and most essential 
features. Take train from the English capital and 
travel north by easy stages. Stop where a great 
university, hoary with centuries but virile still, sits 
in quiet dignity beside the Cam, pause again where 
the towers of Ely find reflection in the placid Ouse 
or Lincoln proudly shoulders up its majestic cathe- 
dral or York is gathered under the shadow of its 
noble Minster — and you have seen the embodiment 
of the two great forces that have entered into the 



204 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

life of the English people to make them one of the 
mightiest nations of the earth — ^learning and 
religion. Here is the story of this island folk litho- 
graphed in its larger lines, the story of consecrated 
purpose and noble ideal and long endurance and 
large sacrifice, the story of a nation's faith and 
hope. 

As you pause in the shadow of these towers and 
look up at their lichen-covered walls marked by the 
tooth of time, you can but marvel how wisely and 
well this people builded in those turbulent ages 
when nation-building seemed so often to go by 
chance. An inspired writer has said that in the 
building of life faith and knowledge must be 
cemented together into the foundation walls. And 
history testifies that this is true also of a nation's 
life; the foundation must be of faith and knowl- 
edge; all other is vain. The French rejected faith, 
and proposed to build a nation on reason; but the 
structure toppled into the chaos of revolution in the 
same generation. Other nations have tried faith 
without knowledge, but the great cathedrals rising 
among a decadent people bear witness that this also 
is vain. England has ever pointed with equal pride 
to her schools and her churches. 

It is noteworthy that her most ancient buildings 
are homes of learning and houses of worship. Her 
factories, her bourses, her banks are new. But her 
schools and churches are gray with age. Even 
while the battle for existence and integrity was 
raging in the formative centuries of her career, she 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 205 

deemed it time to establish schools for Iier youth. 
So long, indeed, have there been universities upon 
the Thames and the Cam that accredited chronicle 
runneth not to the contrary. They have stood like 
beacon lights shining through the gloom of cen- 
turies. They were there when John Lackland 
signed Magna Charta on Runnymede — some say 
that Oxford dates from the days of Alfred. They 
endured the Hundred Years' War and again the 
war of the Roses. Dynasties succeeded each other 
on the throne^ but the schools remained. Reforma- 
tion and Commonwealth came and went, but the 
springs of learning never ceased to flow. Oxford 
and Cambridge have contributed their part to the 
making of the nation, and often where the sword 
has failed the pen of scholar and diplomat have won 
signal victories for the English people. 

We tarried a few hours at Cambridge, visiting 
the spots made famous by her sons, and walking 
under her stately elms. It is something to tarry 
there even for a single hour. When ^N'apoleon 
wished to inspire his soldiers to valorous deeds on 
the hot sands of Egypt, he pointed to the pyramids, 
and said, ^^Soldiers, forty centuries look down upon 
you." And men have ever been inspired to nobler 
acts by the memory of a worthy past. Such inspi- 
ration must come to English youth who gather for 
a season in the historic halls of Cambridge. As 
they look up at her ivy-mantled towers, the long 
vista of her splendid history must open before 
them. And as they go about their daily tasks, 



206 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

surely they must be consciously "compassed about 
with so great a cloud of witnesses." Prom a single 
one of her score of colleges have come such men as 
iJ^ewton, Bacon, Dryden, Macaulay, Byron, Thack- 
eray, Tennyson; while another boasts the names of 
Philip Sidney and Darwin and Milton. 

The university consists of a number of colleges 
grouped together in one section of the town. The 
architecture of some is beautiful, of others ex- 
tremely simple; but the ivy lends grace and beauty 
to all. The courts are exquisite gardens of grass 
and flowers. Behind the colleges flows the river 
Cam, through banks of velvet sod, its waters shaded 
by ancient trees. Beyond the river the grounds of 
the several colleges stretch away beneath the 
branches of noble oak and elm, the shaded sward 
flecked with light where the sun strikes in between 
the trees — an idyllic setting for a seat of learning. 

After Cambridge, as one travels north, come 
some of England's most famous cathedrals, Ely and 
Peterboro and Lincoln and York and Durham. 
The traveler who is interested in English life can not 
afford to pass them by. As you look upon one of 
these ancient consecrated piles or pass in through 
the portals to its pillared nave, the flrst lesson it 
should teach is one in English history, the funda- 
mental truth of England's life — that ever since St. 
Augustine came to bring to this sea-girt isle the 
glad news of the gospel some thirteen centuries ago, 
the English people have been religious and have 
taken their religion seriously. Most of the spots on 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 207 

which the cathedrals stand were consecrated to the 
service of religion in those dim days unlit by 
accepted history. And through the ages since, the 
spots have been kept sacred to that service. Storms 
may have swept away the edifice, flames may have 
devoured it, enemies may have sacked and wrecked 
it, time may have pulled it down, but always the 
church rose again in due season^ like the phoenix, 
out of its ashes. 

If you have an eye to see and a mind to read, you 
may trace the nation's story from age to age as it 
stands written there in large dim lines in the great 
stone books. To be sure the lines that were traced 
in the troublous Saxon days, when the tide of con- 
quest surged back and forth so fiercely in the 
island realm, have been blotted out till naught re- 
mains of that time but the rude foundation walls 
deep buried beneath the earth — foundations of 
churches that first stood upon these sites. But in 
the very walls of the churches of to-day you may 
see the handiwork of the ^Norman who came over 
with the Conqueror in 1066. Here and there in the 
most ancient parts of the building you come upon 
the remains of this work, circular arches, low but 
strong and sturdy — much like those hardy men who 
built them — and stout columns to correspond. And 
above these the work of their successors, pointed 
arches, more airy and aspiring. And then the later 
styles, lying one upon another in the pile, like the 
time-worn leaves of some manuscript whose pages 
had been inscribed by successive writers, each in a 



208 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

handwriting all his own. The cathedrals stand np 
out of the past, like the Druid monuments of Stone- 
henge, to witness to the unfailing spirit of religion 
in the English people. 

And what real devotion these churches represent ! 
There are a score of cathedrals in England, all built, 
practically as they now appear, from two to five 
centuries ago — before the era of millionaires. And 
yet they eclipse in size and costliness of structure 
anything that has been done in the way of church 
building to-day. There is not a church of the 'New 
World, for all our boasted wealth and liberality, 
that will favorably compare with any one of the old 
English cathedrals. Their architecture is of the 
noblest, their workmanship of the best. ISTo ex- 
pense of time or talent was too dear for the builders 
of these ancient shrines. Some idea of this devo- 
tion may be gotten when it is remembered that for 
fifteen years Edward the Confessor gave one tenth 
of the national income to the building of Westmin- 
ster Abbey. What sacrifice the building of these 
great churches throughout the land must have de- 
manded at the hands of the people. But the sacri- 
fice was made, and the cathedrals stand to-day as a 
witness. 

The youngest of the great English cathedrals we 
had already visited, St. Paul's, the soul of London. 
And yet it is not so young, after all, for it dates 
from the Great Eire of 1666, when its predecessor 
was burned. It is the fifth largest church in 
Christendom, being surpassed by St. Peter's, and 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 209 

the cathedrals of Florence, Milan, and Seville. 
But the effect of its proportions is lost upon the 
spectator. Like St. Peter's, it is so hedged in by 
other buildings that a near view of the whole is 
impossible, and from a distance only the dome is 
seen rising above the sky line of the city. Business 
houses have intruded under the very eaves of the 
noble building, as if the mercenary world begrudged 
the church its plot of precious ground. You must 
see St. Paul's in sections, and then piece together 
the sections as best you can — always to the detri- 
ment of Sir Christopher's conception. One could 
wish that the great church might have crowned 
some eminence from which it could be seen in its 
grandeur. But the plot of ground down in the 
heart of the old city had been too long a consecrated 
spot to be given over when the great fire gave Wren 
his chance of immortality. Since the days of 
Eoman occupation there had been a house of wor- 
ship there. Ethelbert had restored it after the 
Saxon storm. And through the centuries churches 
had succeeded each other. Here Wycliffe had been 
cited for heresy, and Tyndale's 'New Testament had 
been burned by over-zealous defenders of the faith. 
'No choice of site remained for the builders. But 
though St. Paul's sits among the roofs of London, it 
maintains its noble bearing, like a bishop among the 
pews. 

From St. Paul's to Ely is a far call in history, 
but only a few hours ride by rail. The little town 
14 



210 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

sits quietly beside the river Ouse, much the same 
as it has been these Rve hundred years; for even 
the bold and revolutionary railroad pays its respects 
at a distance and passes by on the outskirts of the 
town. You alight in the suburbs and take foot, if 
you are a good tourist, along the broad way that 
rambles into the sleepy town. But scarcely have 
you alighted when your eye falls upon the one and 
sufficient monument of Ely — the cathedral. And 
how different in situation from St. Paul's ! There 
the cathedral struggles against obscuration in a 
great city. Here it dominates a little village. Ely 
cathedral crowns a gently sloping hill, the town 
gathered about it, like a brood under the wings of 
a mother. The lack of proportion between church 
and town impresses the visitor^ and he wonders how 
it came about that so splendid a pile of architecture 
was reared in so insignificant a place. The expla- 
nation comes when he remembers that a cathedral 
is not representative of the town in which it is 
located, but is the capitol, so to speak, of the diocese. 
It is primarily the place where the bishop has his 
chair or cathedra, and is representative of the whole 
episcopal see. It may therefore be situated in a 
great city or a small town, according to circum- 
stance. 

But Ely is not so insignificant as it seems to the 
eye. It has played no inconspicuous part in the 
story of the English people. Let us think of it as 
it appeared in those early centuries when the fens 
which stretch away from it to-day in level 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 211 

meadows were treacherous marshes cut by broad 
lagoons, and when the cathedral stood upon "the 
isle of Ely." Those were the days of Saxon de- 
cline and Norman ascendancy, and in the last days 
of that unequal struggle the fens became the refuge 
of Saxon bands. From here they sallied forth upon 
occasion to make fitful stand against the advancing 
foe. And here upon the isle of Ely, Hereward, 
"Last of the English," took refuge with his fol- 
lowers and defied the Norman, till William 
appeared in person, and driving a causeway across 
the fens made himself at last undisputed master of 
the land. And after that the name of Ely appears 
more than once in the annals of the land, her 
bishops stepping forth from their cloistered mews 
to take a hand in temporal things, for in those tem- 
pestuous times the shepherd's crook full often gave 
place to the sword in the hand of the mitred priest. 
It was to Cox, bishop of this same Ely, that Eliza- 
beth sent the brief but significant message : 
"Proud Prelate, — You know what you were before 
I made you what you are; if you do not immedi- 
ately comply with my request, by God I will 
unfrock you." And a century after this event 
Cromwell, as Carlyle records it, appeared in the 
cathedral "with a rabble at his heels," shouting out 
to the preacher at the sacred desk, "leave off your 
fooling and come down, sir." Great have been the 
vicissitudes of the ancient fane. War has often 
knocked rudely at its door. The fields about it 
have been dyed by turns with Protestant and 



212 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

Catholic blood. Its very architecture is significant 
of strife, for its towers suggest armed battlements 
rather than peaceful shrines — and as if to accen- 
tuate this suggestion there stands an ancient cannon 
upon the green, its mouth directed toward these 
towers. Pass round it to the south, and you come 
upon all that remains of Ely's cloisters, a few 
crumbling ruins that speak as eloquently of an age 
of strife as do the tooth-marked bones of the fossil 
dinosaur. 

But the waters have long since receded from the 
fens, and left them fertile meadows; and the 
tumult of war has died out, let us hope forever, 
from the towers of Ely. Certainly no scene is more 
peaceful or soothing to the traveler's eye than this 
ancient church rising out of its ample Close, sur- 
rounded by a green sward set with stately trees, and 
round about, a quiet village melting away into the 
dreamy fields. 

Coming up the main street, we found ourselves 
at the west end of the cathedral under the battle- 
mented towers. The sun was well past the 
meridian^ beginning to drop down across the meads, 
and day clouds trailed their shadows slowly across 
the scene. Light and shadow followed each other 
upon the face of the ancient church, bringing out 
in varying shades the details of its noble front, and 
tracing in softened lines its wealth of sculptured 
stone. Swallows circled about the battlements. 
A shopman stood in his door at the corner of the 
Close. A few figures loitered along the farther 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 213 

streets. 'No other sign of life about the place, 
except the group of tourists who stood before the 
cathedral. We passed in under the towers through 
the Galilee porch — so named because it is farthest 
from the altar, as Galilee was from the altar on 
Mt. Zion — and stood within the cool shadows of the 
interior. It was like passing from an August noon 
to the twilight of an autumn day, so subdued had 
the light and warmth become under the influence of 
the mighty pile. Before us, when our eyes had 
become adjusted to the change, stretched the great 
church, nave and pillared aisle, transept and sculp- 
tured choir — a mighty prostrate cross, at whose 
feet we stood. Far away under the central tower a 
group of chairs were huddled together, and as we 
passed up the nave we discovered a sexton at work 
in one of the side aisles. Coming to where transept 
joins nave and choir, we were beneath Alan of 
Walsingham's octagonal tower, "the only Gothic 
dome in existence,'' says Ferguson in his History of 
Architecture. It rises majestically from its eight 
massive supporting pillars, crowned with a "lan- 
tern" through whose windows the light is sifted 
down into the shadows of the church — a fit center- 
piece for so grand a pile. As we looked up, a cap- 
tive bird flitted about the inner lantern, so high that 
we took it at first for a butterfly. 

Having paid our respects to this shrine with what 
deliberateness time allowed, we took up our journey 
again. Three hours' run brought us to Lincoln, one 
of the oldest cities of England, a town of some 



214 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

sixty thousand souls, not unacquainted with the 
hum of macliinery and the smoke of factory — a 
bustling, up-to-date town, for all its antiquity. The 
railway runs here boldly into the town, amid a maze 
of tracks and a confusion of laboring machinery. 
We arrived as the night was gathering, and when 
we had found hostelry, sauntered out to see some- 
thing of the town in silhouette. The streets are 
steep, running up and down the precipitous sides of 
the liill on which Lincoln is built. Passing up the 
principal thoroughfare, we came shortly to the cathe- 
dral — indeed, one has only to keep going up hill, 
and he is sure to come to the church at last, for it 
crowns the hilltop, and every incline ends before its 
doors. Our first view of Lincoln Cathedral there- 
forCj was under the stars. The great church stood 
up against the background of night like a huge 
spectre, its roof and towers outlined against the sky, 
its windows dark and its aisles as silent as death. 
Below it on the slopes of the hill the lights of the 
city sparkled, and the quick ear might catch noises 
of the street rising through the stillness of the 
night. The great church seemed to brood like a 
solemn spirit over the town. 

Next morning we visited the cathedral again to 
admire it more in detail. It is said to be the finest 
church in England, taking it altogether, though it 
is not the largest. It measures four hundred and 
eighty feet in length and a scant half that reach 
across the transept. If you approach by way of the 
Exchequer Gate, you find yourself suddenly upon 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 215 

the open space before the cathedral door, with the 
broad facade rising like a high decorated wall 
before you. The first appearance is entirely mis- 
leading, for the facade is broader than the body of 
the church, so much broader that on comparison it 
seems almost a sham front — and Lincoln Cathedral 
is surely noble enough to dispense with masks. 
However, it is of great beauty in itself, and its 
mixture of E^orman and English styles gives it pecu- 
liar interest in the eye of the architect. But the 
tourist fain leaves to others the pleasure of dissect- 
ing the old cathedral joint by joint, and is content to 
enjoy it for an hour in the varied expression of its 
larger detail and in its entirety. 

Lincoln Cathedral has a long story. And surely 
no apology need be offered here to the reader of 
these pages for frequent reference to the past. In 
these old lands it is so much larger than the present 
that one finds more freedom wandering there; and 
moreover, as Dr. Johnson says, "Whatever with- 
draws us from the power of our senses, whatever 
makes the past, the distant, or the future predomi- 
nate over the present, advances us in the dignity of 
thinking beings." The first church to occupy this 
site was erected by Remegius, the old Norman 
bishop, about 1075; and though it was injured by 
fire and wrecked by earthquake in the following 
century, vestiges of this first structure are yet to be 
seen incorporated in the present facade. When you 
have feasted your eyes enough on this great stone 
screen, you may pass in through any one of the 



216 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

three great Norman doorways, under the square 
towers that reach far above the facade, down the 
nave that stretches in long perspective beneath 
shadowy vaults, till you stand in the center of the 
church, under the square tower that rises in the 
place where a dome would be. Turning your eye 
toward the south, you look up to where the rose- 
window called ^'The Bishop's Eye" fills all the 
transept gable, letting in the light through its soft 
stained glass as it has done these six hundred years; 
across in the northern transept "The Dean's Eye" 
looks do^vn upon you with mild benevolence. 

What memories lurk about the place ! Here 
wrought and died the good St. Hugh of Lincoln, 
and here for a season was the abiding place of him 
who is known to history as Cardinal Wolsey. In 
the Close, when you have passed round the east end 
of the church, is a bronze statue of the poet Tenny- 
son, a son of Lincolnshire, his faithful dog beside 
him, and in his hand a flower from "the crannied 
wall." 

We should have been glad to linger about the 
spot, but time urged us, and we took up our wander- 
ing once more. A pause was made at York to pay 
a hurried visit to its Minster — no cathedral of 
England is more deserving of deliberate study. 
But the call of Scotland was in our ears, and we 
were impatient to be among its hills. 



CHAPTEK XIII 

THE LAND OF PURPLE HEATHER 

Little wonder we Americans know more about 
other lands than we do about our own. Think of 
England and Scotland, with all their wealth of 
scenery, history, and legend brought within the 
compass of a single month's inexpensive travel, with 
an ocean voyage thrown in at either end, and you 
will understand how it is we go over seas to do our 
sight-seeing. Who would drag across a continent 
to find in half a dozen States what he can find in a 
nut-shell at the other end of a delightful ocean voy- 
age? Dr. Hale has somewhere excused such delin- 
quencies of patriotism by saying that ^^in America, 
wherever I go, the railroads make me pay so much, 
and the hotels make me pay so much, and the steam- 
boats, that just as I am ready for my grand tour in 
America, some one says to me, ^Take a second-class 
ticket with me for Hamburg'; and I do, and we 
travel in Bohemia instead of going to Tacoma." 

How short distances are upon the Isles, and how 
full of interest. England is smaller than N^orth 
Carolina, and Scotland less by a thousand square 
miles than South Carolina. You may breakfast in 
London and sup in Edinburgh if you have a mind 
to. But who would want to do that? Certainly we 
did not. We stopped off at Cambridge. We tar- 



218 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

ried at Ely. We saw Lincoln by day and night. 
We paused by the way to see York Minster, looking 
down upon the town, and its river Ouse slipping 
toward the sea. There are two rivers of this name 
in England, the other running past Ely — nothing 
like travel for learning geography. Every square 
mile of this country has made its contribution to his- 
tory. Suddenly in the conversation of the coach or 
on the trainman's lips you come upon names that 
carry you back to the schooldays of yore. And more 
specially does this seem true as you approach the 
border — that land which, taken in all its history, is 
little less than one intermittent battlefield. For here 
among the Cheviot Hills was a "Mason and Dixon 
line'' over which blood flowed freely for four hun- 
dred stormy years. Halidon Hill and Flodden Field 
and Solway Moss — here they are, the bloody steps 
of Scotland's slow decline. What tragic stories hang 
upon these names, stories of defeat and despair for 
that people of the north in their struggle for na- 
tional integrity. How many bones of noble knights 
and no less noble yeomen are mouldering beneath 
the sod of this borderland! But its billowing hills 
lie fair and peaceful beneath the sun now that the 
last echoes of strife have died away. 

We left York early one afternoon, passed Durham 
with its cathedral and ancient castle standing up 
against the sky, changed cars at Newcastle — where 
you may see one of Stephenson's first engines pre- 
served as a curio in the great railway station — and 
set out for Scotland. Skirting the Tyne we turned 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 219 

north at Hexham — the same at which the star of 
poor Henry the Sixth and his brave wife Margaret 
set in the smoke of battle now more than four hun- 
dred years ago — and headed across the rolling coun- 
try of l^orthumberland for the Cheviot Hills. The 
land was lovely to look upon as the mellow sunlight 
of late afternoon fell over it, and we were lost in 
landscape reverie, when the trainman suddenly 
called out ^'Wall.'^ The name roused us and sent 
us sinking once again into volumes of forgotten 
lore; for across country here ran the great wall 
which the Romans built from Solway Firth on the 
one coast to the mouth of the Tyne on the other, in 
vain endeavor to stay the tide of savage Picts who 
poured down from the Highlands. Now Eomans, 
Picts, and the wall alike are gone, save in name only. 
At Newcastle some Scotchmen entered our car- 
riage — as the English call a railway car — and were 
able to tell us many things about the country 
through which we ran. One of them, a canny old 
man of three score years and more, declared that he 
had been traveling this way since before the rail- 
road came, and knew every acre of the land. He 
could tell you who owned and who farmed these 
hills — for you must remember as you travel through 
the Isles, that the landlord and the farmer are rarely 
one. He saluted the men at every station as per- 
sonal friends, and spoke of the lands and their ten- 
ants as a patriarch might of his clan. But men in 
this little land may well come to know each other in 
the space of sixty years. Our fellow-traveler was a 



220 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

grazer on his way to the Cheviot Hills to attend the 
great lamb sales which are held here every year at 
this season. His brogue was of the richest — it did 
you good to hear him say ^^doon to Haik/' meaning 
"down to Hawick." And he was just as eager to 
have us know the moment when we crossed the his- 
toric border as we were ourselves, tracing the in- 
visible line for us across the hills. He pointed out 
one of the residences of the Duke of ^N^orthimiber- 
land as we passed through the estates of this great 
landlord, and was quick to magnify the qualities of 
"his Grace.'' 

As we ran through the rolling country that bil- 
lows away to the north in a crescendo of still waves, 
the landscape changed from green to purple. We 
had reached the land of purple heather, and the 
hills were robed in royal color from crown to foot. 
These hills form one of the world's famous pastures, 
and on their slopes the Cheviot sheep are bred. The 
forest has long since disappeared from flank and 
summit, giving place to the heather, which has 
climbed sturdily up over the bald crown of every 
hill, thus lending a softness to the landscape with- 
out destroying the boldness of a single outline. 
There is a rare mingling of the stern and gentle in 
these heather-covered hills. "These gray hills and 
all this wild border country have beauties peculiar 
to themselves," said Walter Scott one day to Wash- 
ington Irving as they walked among the hills. "I 
like the very nakedness of the land; it has some- 
thing bold, and stern, and solitary about it. When 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 221 

I have been for some time in the rich scenery about 
Edinburgh, which is like ornamented garden land, I 
begin to wish myself back again among my own 
honest gray hills; and if I did not see the heather 
at least once a year, I tJiinJc I should dieJ^ 

The heather is a little evergreen shrub usually 
less than a foot in height, which grows in clusters 
Avith foliage much like the arhor vitae. Imagine 
this landscape of somber, unbroken green veiled by 
mists and shadowed by the low-hung leaden sky 
which is so common to the north country, and you 
shall have a picture of the "gray hills, bold, and 
stern, and solitary,'' which the great minstrel of the 
border loved so well. But when late summer has 
come and the heather has burst into blossom, the 
hills don for a season a covering of gorgeous purple. 
Then Scotland becomes in verity the land of purple 
heather. There is also a white heather, a sort of 
albino among the plants, as rare as the four-leaf 
clover, worn by the native as an amulet. One of 
our fellow-travelers had a sprig of it on his coat; 
and when we expressed interest in it, kindly gave us 
the sprig. It rests now under glass with a picture 
of Louis Stevenson as a memento of the land he 
loved. 

One must agree, with Scott that the hills of the 
border are solitary, even at their best. They are 
too rock-ribbed and rugged for the plow. Rarely do 
you see a spot where "the stubborn glebe" has been 
broken. Scattered flocks feed on the hillsides here 
and there, watched by solitary shepherds. Stone 



222 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 

cottages hide under the lee of the hills. For the 
rest, the landscape is as wild and untenanted as the 
poet could desire. As our train rushed along we 
saw heath fowl rise time after time and sail away 
to cover on easy wing. JSTow and then a hare scur- 
ried off through the grass and turned to watch us 
from safe distance. A great hawk was scouring one 
of the hillsides in search of quarry. The feathered 
game is reserved for the landlord's pleasure. A 
man may have tenanted a farm long enough to rear 
a family on it, but he may not shoot a single one of 
the grouse and quail that fly about his fields. And 
as the landlord rarely comes, the birds are remark- 
ably tame. It looked to us as if shooting grouse on 
the Scotch moor would be as easy as killing guineas 
in the house field. And yet we saw two hunters re- 
turning across the hills with light bags. 

As the day was dying in the west we ran in under 
the shadow of the Eildon Hills, and came to Mel- 
rose. "No better place for the traveler first to set 
foot on Scotch soil, for no other place is more 
steeped in all that makes Scotland charming. A 
few minutes' walk through the winding streets of 
the little town brought us to the King's Arms Hotel, 
where we found warm welcome at the hands of the 
jovial keeper of the inn. All there is of Melrose is 
its Abbey. And who has not heard of that? Cer- 
tainly no one who loves the poetry of Walter Scott. 
And those who have read "The Lay of the Last Min- 
strel" will remember these well-known lines, de- 
scriptive of the abbey : 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 223 

"The moon on the east oriel shone 
Through slender shafts of shapely stone, 

By foliag-ed tracery combined; 
Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand 
'Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand 

In many a freakish knot had twined; 
Then framed a spell when the work was done, 
And changed the willow wreaths to stone." 

We had looked forward to seeing the famous 
ruins first under the magic of moonlight, but with 
our arrival the clouds lowered and the rain began 
to fall. There was no help for it. Good Johnny 
Bower, the quondam keeper of the ruins and protege 
of Scott, was long since gone, and with him the tal- 
low candle on a pole with which he was wont to 
show his visitors through the ruins on moonless 
nights, to his own great satisfaction, declaring, ^^It 
does na light up a' the Abbey at aince, to be sure, 
but then you can shift it about and show the auld 
ruin bit by bit, whiles the moon only shines on one 
side." Johnny had followed his great master these 
many years^ so we had to content ourselves as best 
we might in the hotel, with the Abbey cloaked in 
Stygian darkness around the corner. But the morn- 
ing more than redeemed the night. The rain was 
gone, and broken clouds scurried before the wind. 
The sun, following the horizon in this high latitude, 
was struggling with the mists, through which his 
light sifted down like a luminous gossamer. Under 
such promise of the skies we set out to see the Ab- 
bey. Turning an angle of the street we came in 
view of "the finest ruin in Scotland," the mists of 



224: WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

the morning just lifted from off its gable roofs. The 
mellow lights and shadows of the shifting day fol- 
lowed each other over the ruin, like the play of a 
gentle smile on a withered face. The Abbey, built 
of pinkish stone from the Eildon Hills, has grown 
gray with the touch of time, and the rich traceries 
of lichen emulate to-day on its walls the intricate 
designs which monkish chisel wrought there so many 
centuries ago. The roof is mostly gone, the walls 
are broken down, the windows are open to the flight 
of birds, only a skeleton of the famous Abbey re- 
mains. But enough is preserved of outline and de- 
tail to give suggestion of what was there at first. 
Eew ruins are so rich in sculptured ornament as 
Melrose Abbey. The broken walls still retain ex- 
quisite gems in stone, capitals and arches and 
frieze — the rose, the kale, the cross, the thistle suc- 
ceeding one another in endless original design. On 
the capital of one of the transept pillars was a per- 
fect kale leaf in stone, and at the foot of the pillar a 
leaf of the kale fresh plucked from the field and set 
in a vase of water. 

"Spreading herbs, and flowrets bright, 
Glisten'd with the dew of night; 
Nor herb, nor flowret, glisten'd there. 
But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair." 

The greensward of the Abbey yard stretches 
around the ruin — an emerald field set with a shat- 
tered opal. 

The Abbey, like all historic buildings of the land, 
has a checkered story. It was founded by David 11 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 225 

in 1136; ruined by Edward II, of England, in 1322; 
restored by Robert Bruce; burned by Richard II in 
1385; damaged again by the English in 1525; and 
finally laid in ruins about the time of the Common- 
wealth. How fierce the religious hatred of those 
centuries must have been, when even so fair and 
stately an edifice was torn down because it had 
served as shelter to a conquered enemy. But it still 
holds sacred relics. Here rest the fierce Douglases, 
asleep in the bosom of that land whose soil was so 
often stained with their blood. Here lies Alexan- 
der ^"^The Peaceful," who counted it enough to have 
wrested Magna Charta from the hands of the Eng- 
lish King. And here, too, says tradition, is the 
grave of Michael Scott, the wizard, at whose magic 
word the Eildon Hills were rent asunder — and what 
fitter place could tradition choose for sepulchre of 
this Merlin of the north than the shadowy, spirit- 
haunted Abbey? And in the apse, under the oriel 
window, is buried the heart of Robert Bruce. A 
sprig of purple heather is kept fresh upon the spot. 
So the ancient Abbey gathers in its palsied arms the 
history, the poetry, the legend of the border; and 
through the gateway of its arches the traveler may 
most fittingly make his entry into the land of strife 
and song and story. 

After our visit to the Abbey we drove out to Ab- 

botsford, the last home of Walter Scott, two miles 

from Melrose. The way led over leas where the 

cattle were grazing and through fields from which 

15 



226 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

the harvest had just been gathered. A flock of 
ravens circled over the shocks of grain and settled to 
their feeding ground. A skylark poured out his liba- 
tion of song from among the clouds. Two workmen 
were pruning a hedge along the way. The broad 
road wound up the hills, shut in by hedgerows as 
smooth as a city street. We crossed a burn brim to 
its velvet banks with the recent rain, turned the 
crest of the hill beyond, passed into an open wood, 
and came to first view of Abbotsford — so christened 
by Sir Walter because through the shallows of the 
river here the abbots of Melrose were wont to drive 
their cattle from bank to bank. 

It is an ideal site for a manor — and it was the 
poet's chief desire to be kno^m as "the Laird of Ab- 
botsford." Behind it the hills fall back in broken 
billows, wooded or heather-grown. Before it the 
Tweed slips "o'er stock and stone." Legend still 
clings to the countryside. It appealed to the poet; 
and from 1812 to 1826 it divided time with Edin- 
burgh as the dwelling-place of Scotland's greatest 
writer — after which time and until his death in 
1832 it claimed him wholly. It is a monument at 
once to his ambition and his financial ruin. About 
it will ever cling the tenderest associations. One 
loves to think of it as Washington Irving pictures it 
in its golden days, with the poet welcoming his 
guests to the boundless hospitality of its halls and 
enlivening the hours with scintillations of an inex- 
haustible humor, or walking among the neighboring 
hills which his fancy touched with romance, or work- 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 227 

ing prodigiously in his library through the morning 
hours while the household slept. Here his great 
literary labors were accomplished. And here, when 
the financial storm had left him worse than penni- 
less, he worked mightily and yet cheerfully until the 
twilight of life was come and the evening bell had 
marked the end of the long day's labor. What a 
noble life that was in honor of which we visit Ab- 
botsford. Unpretentious in the days of prosperity. 
Undaunted in the days of adversity. "Adversity is 
to me at least a tonic and a bracer/' he said when 
ruin had come. And in that spirit he took up his 
pen and set himself to discharge all obligations. "I 
will involve no friend, either rich or poor. My own 
right hand shall do it." And when his friends ex- 
pressed doubt as to the results, "Time and I against 
any two," he said cheerily, and turned to his work. 
When incessant labor had exhausted the springs of 
life, and the shadows had begun to fall prematurely, 
they took him away to Italy. But a great longing 
seized him in that foreign land, and "Let us to Ab- 
botsford," he said. Thither they brought him in 
obedience to his wish, and there, as the summer was 
ebbing out, he passed away. "It was a beautiful 
day, so warm that every window was wide open, and 
so perfectly still, that the sound, of all others most 
delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed 
over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt 
around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed 
his eyes." Such in brief was the life of "The Laird 
of Abbotsford." And the visitor to this shrine of 



228 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

Scottish story should come to it not only as the 
home of a wonderful story-teller, but of a man gen- 
tle and courageous and indomitable and pure in 
heart. 

It stands to-day as the poet left it, and the visitor 
is impressed with the evidences every^vhere of Sir 
Walter's love of his native land. Every ornament 
of the house has a meaning and is touched with the 
history or the tradition of Scotland. The decora- 
tions are reproduced from Melrose Abbey. The 
armory contains Rob Roy's sword. There are sou- 
venirs of Scottish kings, and a lock of Mary Stuart's 
hair. He loved his country and cherished its every 
memory. It was from his heart he wrote the fa- 
mous lines: 

"Breathes there a man with soul so dead 
Who never to himself hath said. 
This is my own, my native land!" 

The library contains many thousand volumes in 
Latin and French, as Avell as English. Here is the 
famous bust of the poet, and on the wall hangs a 
life-size painting of young Sir Walter. The room 
where the author worked opens out of the library. 
It remains as he left it, the great armchair drawn up 
to the desk, the books at hand. In the exit hall is 
a case containing the last suit he ever wore, with his 
boots. The place remains in the hands of the fam- 
ily, and is now (1906) occupied by a great-grand- 
daughter of the poet. But to the world the one 
occupant of Abbotsford will ever be "the wizard of 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 229 

the north/' and his spirit shall pervade for us the 
place which is so redolent of his memory. 

From Abbotsford we drove across country seven 
miles to Dryburgh Abbey, where Scott and his fam- 
ily are buried. It was a lovely countryside through 
which we passed as our carriage wound down the 
valley of the Tweed. The way carried us again by 
the foot of the Eildon Hills, shining deep pink 
against the subdued sky of a cloudy day. We 
alighted some distance from the ruin, where a foot- 
bridge is thrown across the Tweed, in a wild and 
solitary spot — one is surprised to find such wildness 
in an old and populated land. On a wooded height 
beyond the river rises a huge figure of William Wal- 
lace, carved in native pink stone. The sight took 
us back to the days of youth when we lay under the 
shade of the trees and followed the old warrior with 
bated breath through the pages of ^^Scottish Chiefs.'' 
A walk of twenty minutes across the foot-bridge and 
under the trees brought us to the Abbey^ and a 
shilling to the keeper gained us admission to the 
ruins. 

Dryburgh is in even a more advanced stage of 
dilapidation than Melrose. Indeed, only a few sec- 
tions of the walls are standing. As one looks upon 
the ruins of these ancient abbeys, faint vestiges of 
the old monastic system, it is as if, standing upon the 
deck of an ocean liner, he should sight across the 
waters the broken masts of some long-deserted dere- 
lict. Once the Abbey of Dryburgh played its part 
in the world's work. Once a brotherhood of monks 



230 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

found home here, doing penance and counting their 
rosaries as the days passed By. The keeper will 
point out to you in the grass-grown foundations the 
library, the refectory, and the cells, where the long- 
perished monastic life was nourished. But storms 
have wrecked the ship and set it at the mercy of the 
elements, its occupants long since gone. 

Numerous spreading yew-trees stand round about 
the vine-covered Abbey, some of them old enough 
to have looked upon it when it was animate mtli 
votaries. Withal, the ruin is picturesque enough, 
and it is not strange that Walter Scott should choose 
as liis last resting-place this spot where romance and 
wild beauty garland the grave of Scotland's past 
with ivy and immortelles. 



CHAPTER XIV 



THE CITY OF THE SCOTS 



'Not as if tliere were only one city in Scotland, 
for as a matter of fact, when you come to count 
souls, tliere are several places that may easily be 
granted that rank. There is Dundee with its hun- 
dred and seventy thousand people. There is Aber- 
deen, no less important, sitting serenely where the 
waters of the German ocean beat upon the base of 
the Grampian Hills, as stable as the blocks of granite 
which it contributes to the commerce of the world. 
And then there is Glasgow by the mouth of the 
Clyde, with almost a million souls, after London the 
largest city in the kingdom and one of the most im- 
portant of the world. These all are cities of Scot- 
land. But when it comes to the life, the literature, 
and the legend of the Scottish people, there is but 
one city of the Scots — Edinburgh. For centuries 
she was the capital of the nation; and though the 
lawgiver has long since departed from her halls, she 
is still supreme in the hearts of the people. 

And not only is she first in the hearts of her own 
people, but she has a charm for the stranger such as 
no other city of the north. Lying there under the 
bleak northern sky, beaten upon by blasts from the 
German ocean, ermine-mantled with snows from the 
Highlands, the sun stooping low upon her southern 



232 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

horizon bj day and the Great Bear swinging through 
the zenith by night, — "one of the vilest climates 
under heaven/' says Louis Stevenson, — ^Edinburgh 
still draws the traveler with irresistible charnij for 
she can boast more romance and story and pictur- 
esqueness than any other city of the Isles. Even so 
prosaic a thing as a railroad terminal, with its noise 
and smoke and grime, is touched by the finger of 
poesy when it enters this modern Athens; and the 
traveler who would approach the city must enter 
through the Waverley or the Caledonian Station. 

It was through the former we gained entrance to 
the capital of Caledonia, having prefaced our visit 
with Melrose and Abbotsford. And, indeed, one 
needs to preface a visit to Edinburgh with a good 
deal of Scotch history and literature if he would 
enter into the spirit of the famous city and under- 
stand the things it has to tell. We took cabs at the 
Waverley, and drove to Royal Circus, which is a 
beautiful circular park of the Kew Town, where 
Great King street expands its lungs to take in the 
breezes from the Firth of Forth. Our way lay along 
Princes street, one of the loveliest boulevards in the 
world. To the right of us business houses were lined 
up shoulder to shoulder by the curb, their windows 
kaleidoscopic with tartans of the clans. To the left 
lay Princes Street Gardens, a park nestling in the 
hollow of the hills, where flowers grow in profusion, 
and where the deeds of Scotland's sons are com- 
memorated in stone. Here beside the great thor- 
oughfare, in the heart of Midlothian, the people 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 233 

have seen fit to testify their love of Walter Scott by 
rearing to him a monument, a beautiful Gothic pile, 
under the arches of which is a sitting figure of the 
novelist with his faithful dog beside him. Here, too, 
is a statue of David Livingstone, and one of John 
Wilson, known to literature under the mask of 
"Christopher North/' Near him stands Allan Ram- 
say, the poet. Beyond the gardens rises the grim 
Castle of Edinburgh, lifted high above the city on 
its rock-ribbed cliff, from the flanks of which the 
sinuous streets of the Old Town slope away toward 
the Meadows or Arthur's Seat. 

At Frederick street we turned north, crossed 
George street, where stand monuments to Prince 
Albert; Thomas Chalmers, the great preacher; 
William Pitt, the statesman; George IV, and Mel- 
ville; and came to our stopping place. Here in the 
compass of two blocks you may see the homes of 
Sidney Smith, and Sir James Simpson (discoverer of 
chloroform), and "Christopher North," and Louis 
Stevenson, and Walter Scott. How rich the city is 
in traditions of famous men; and the end is not yet, 
as we shall see when we walk through the streets of 
the Old Town. Our hostess proved to be a relative 
and former playmate of Stevenson, and so over the 
teacups we had rare introduction to the life and 
legend of the charming city through the pleasant 
ways of reminiscence. 

The most conspicuous landmark of the city, both 
topographically and historically, is the Castle. It 
lies over in the Old Town, a Gibraltar reduced. It 



234 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

crowns a huge rock that rises sheer out of the sur- 
rounding plain some four hundred feet, practically 
unscalable except on one of its sides. Coming from 
Princes street, you pass along the Mound, which 
connects the 'New and the Old Town across the Gar- 
dens, leave the Bank of Scotland to your left, and 
hold your course up the steep incline that slopes to 
the ancient stronghold of the Scottish kings. Cross- 
ing the drawbridge and clearing the portcullis, you 
stand upon the parapet of the castle, overlooking 
the city and surrounding country. At your feet 
Edinburgh stretches over the low-lying hills. 
Through the edge of it flows the water of Leith like 
a ribbon. To the north, almost on the horizon, the 
Firth of Forth shimmers in the sun, running out to 
meet the sea. To the east rises Calton Hill, the 
Acropolis of this northern Athens, its monuments 
silhouetted against the sky; and beyond it a veil of 
mist where the Firth is wedded to the stormy ocean. 
Farther toward the south looms Arthur's Seat, a 
rugged eminence where tradition says the king and 
the knights of the Roundtable were wont to gather 
before brave Arthur passed into that "fair island 
valley of Avilion.'' To the south, in the far back- 
ground, the Pentland Hills break away in purpling 
billows. Over you the frowning battlements of the 
citadel tower in a sort of gTim silence. 

When at last the chill north wind has driven you 
back from this splendid view — for the wind has an 
edge to it here even on summer days — you enter the 
ancient fortress. Its authentic history begins witli 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 235 

Malcolm III in tlie eleventh century. And from 
that tnne till James VI went to take the place of 
Queen Bess beside the Thames, it watched over the 
birth and destiny of Scotland's kings. And what 
a stormy destiny that was upon which the grim 
castle looked through successive generations one 
may gather from this brief chronicle: "Rob- 
ert III, second of the Stuarts, died of a broken 
heart, caused by misfortune. James I, after spend- 
ing most of his life in prison, was slain by the dag- 
ger of an assassin. James II was killed by the 
bursting of a cannon at Roxburgh. James III, 
while resisting the rebellion of his son and successor, 
fell a victim to a nameless murderer after his de- 
feat at Sauchie Burn. James IV, the victorious 
Absalom, died on Flodden Field, whither he had led 
his army to disaster. James V died broken-hearted, 
mourning over the disgrace and repulse of his forces 
at Solway Moss. His daughter^ Mary, expired on 
the scaffold.'' Such have been the sad tidings that 
have come to the ancient fortress anon as her kings 
came and went. The castled crag of Edinburgh has 
stood in the middle stream of Scottish story since 
those far-off inarticulate ages out of whose mists it 
has risen into the light of accredited history. More 
than once storms have swept bare the ancient rock, 
but always it was crowned again with a stronghold. 
The names of Malcolm and Donald and Bruce cling 
to it still with the tenacity of legend. It was the 
retreat of good Queen Margaret, mother of Scot- 
tish kings, and on its windswept parapet you may 



236 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

see to-day the bleak stone chapel which bears her 
name. As the crag stands prominent in every view 
from the country round about, so the Castle of Ed- 
inburgh stands prominent in every view of Scot- 
land's history. 

But the tragic story has long since been acted out 
to its last scene, and you approach the Castle not 
as the citadel of Scotland's power, but as the mauso- 
leum where are preserved that power's mouldering 
remains. Pass in through the tortuous way to the 
inner court. Climb up as best you can the narrow 
stair that leads to a low, ill-lighted room under the 
roof, and you are in the presence of all that is left 
of Scottish royalty. It is the crown room, where 
the regalia of Scotland are kept. In a glass case are 
exposed to view the ancient crown, with the sword 
of state and the royal sceptre. What a pathetic 
sight ! these emblems of a vanished glory. Round 
about that modest diadem the storms have raged 
since first it graced the brow of Robert Bruce six 
hundred years ago. What schemes of state have 
been spun about it. What battles fought for its 
possession. What floods of human blood poured out 
on its account. It was a storm center through all 
the centuries till the union of Scotland and England 
in the person of James VI. But now 'tis all past, 
and the diadem which was long the coveted prize of 
nations lies upon the shore of history where the ebb- 
tide left it at last. Eor more than a hundred years 
this crown, which graced the brow of Mary Stuart 
and brought about her death, lay dust covered and 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 237 

forgotten in a chest of this upper chamber, till the 
patriotic zeal of Walter Scott brought it to light 
once more. 

E'ear by are the apartments of Mary Stuart, 
where as queen she spent much of her time, and 
where her son^ James VI, first saw the Kght, in a 
little chamber which "would scarcely be occupied, 
save under protest, by a housemaid in our days." 
As she lay there with the innocent child at her 
breast and looked out upon Edinburgh town, little 
did she think that a day would come when the can- 
non of this same child would be planted in the 
streets of her capital city and trained upon her own 
castle walls. But such was ever the fate of the 
Stuarts. 

Having made the round of the Castle — most of it 
is now occupied as barracks and so closed to vis- 
itors — you pass down the esplanade again to where 
it merges into the Lawnmarket and High street, 
running straight from the Castle to the palace of 
Holyrood at the other end of the city. This was in 
olden times the great artery of Edinburgh life. In- 
deed, Edinburgh may well be said to have grown up 
about this center. Let us think of this ancient way, 
not as it appears to the eye of the tourist, hedged 
in by tall reeky buildings, but as a broad crude road 
running do^vn through broken fields from the strong- 
hold to the forest, in whose leafy depth David I had 
built the Abbey of Holyrood when, according to 
story, he had been saved from the horns of a mad- 
dened stag by the intervention of a miraculous cross 



238 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

upon this spot. Such was the nucleus around which 
Edinburgh grew — a castle and an abbey, the sword 
and the spirit — and these have been the moulding 
influences in her whole career. 

As we pass down the Lawmnarket, the mind turns 
to these earlier times, and one likes to dream of the 
spirited days when pageant and royal procession 
were not uncommon here, for this way passed the 
rulers of the realm as they went to worship in the 
Abbey, and this way ambassadors passed to castle 
and court. What a sight High street must have pre- 
sented that day when it was thronged with the mul- 
titude and every window of the tall buildings bulged 
with life — all turned out to welcome back their 
young Queen Mary from over the waters to her 
capital city. Many epoch-marking scenes High 
street has looked upon, as you will be reminded at 
almost every step. At its very entrance stands St. 
Giles' Church, the old cathedral where John Ivnox 
preached and from the pulpit of which he hurled 
philippics against what he took to be abuses and dan- 
gers of the age. Erom here he arraigned this same 
Queen Mary, and down this street he passed at her 
summons to give account before her majesty in the 
Palace of Holyrood for his words — the stern, un- 
compromising, unflinching Eather of the Scotch 
Reformation. One can picture the old street 
pulsing with life that day as the crowd surged down 
to the Palace gates and stood through the livelong 
day with restless patience to hear the outcome of 
the great preacher's trial, readv to receive him when 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 239 

he should liave been vindicated, as in due time he 
was. ~^0Y must one forget that other scene in this 
same street, when after John Knox had appeared 
for the last time in the church to which his life was 
given, the people hurried out to offer a silent bene- 
diction to the old man as he went through them 
bowed with years and cares to his home. That 
house you may see, standing out upon a corner of 
this street like a watch tower, overlooking the come 
and go of the people, as John Knox himself stood 
all those stormy years a watchman over the life of 
Edinburgh. Not far from St. Giles, in Parliament 
Square, you may see a simple stone let into the pave- 
ment, with these words inscribed upon it, "J. K. 
1572," the letters almost worn away now by the 
constant passing of hoofs and wheels. It marks the 
resting place of John Knox, who was buried here in 
the shadow of his church when a cemetery occupied 
the ground. 

Turning from the grave of the great Reformer, 
you pass under the shadow of the City Cross, a sort 
of secular pulpit raised here upon the edge of the 
public square, from which proclamations of the 
Crown were wont to be spread abroad — before the 
days of the morning paper. Just beyond, as you 
enter upon High street once more, is the figure of a 
heart worked into the cobblestones to mark the site 
of the old Tolbooth Prison. The prison itself, like 
the Bastille of Paris, has long since disappeared 
from the face of the earth and its very foundations 
have beeii leveled for the passing of the busy crowd. 



240 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

The wind sweeps airily to-day over the spot where 
in years agone many a debtor and criminal lay in 
the darkness and squalor of dank prison cells. But 
in its day the Tolbooth must have furnished many 
an exciting scene in the life of High street, if one 
may depend upon the chroniclers — scenes which 
bring to us some meager comfort in this often law- 
less land of ours. Eor it appears that on one occa- 
sion when riot had broken out at a festival, a ring- 
leader was arrested, thrown into the Tolbooth, and 
condemned to be hanged on the public square. Pro- 
tests and petitions were in vain to save the culprit's 
neck, and the day of execution was come. Then it 
was the mob took the law in its own hand, and set 
out down High street, ^^and first they housed Alex- 
ander Guthrie and the provost and baillies in the 
said Alexander's writing booth, and syne came down 
again to the Cross and dang down the gibbet and 
brake it in pieces, and thereafter past to the Tol- 
booth which was then steekit : and when they could 
not apprehend the keys thereof they brought ham- 
mers and dang up the said Tolbooth door perforce, 
the provost, baillies, and others looking thereupon; 
and when the said door was broken up ane part of 
them passed in the same, and not only brought the 
said cordwainer forth of the said Tolbooth, but also 
all the remaining persons being thereintill : and this 
done they passed up the Hie gate." So they settled 
matters of law in those troublous days when Scot- 
land was rent to the heart with religious dissension. 
One may appropriately turn aside here from High 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 241 

street to visit Greyfriars' Churcli, which lies hard 
by upon the crest of one of the Old Town hills — 
deserving attention not so much on account of the 
church itself as of its cemetery, which is a sort of 
graveyard of the Reformation, a common memorial 
of the unquenchable zeal of that heroic age. Here 
lies the ^^bluidy Mackenzie" of Covenanter days. 
Here, too, are buried Ramsay the poet and Robert- 
son the historian, as if to lend a gentle touch to the 
sternness of the place. On one of the flat tomb- 
stones the ^^Solemn Oath of the Covenant'' was 
signed in 1638. Here forty years afterward twelve 
hundred soldiers taken at Bothwell Brig were kept 
five long months, ^^fed on bread and water, and 
guarded, life for life, by vigilant marksmen,'' till 
their doom should be fixed; many of them no doubt 
meeting their doom here among the graves. The 
dates on the stones run back through those terrible 
years of religious persecution when Claverhouse and 
his troopers hunted the Covenanters with tireless 
zeal. Down in one corner of the yard is a monu- 
ment to the eighteen thousand souls who in that 
thirty years' struggle preferred death to recanta- 
tion. And over them are inscribed these lines : 

"Halt, passenger, take heed what you do see. 
This tomb doth show for what some men did die. 
Here lies the dust of those who stood 
'Gainst perjury, resisting unto blood." 

Such were the fierce and fearless men who have 
written Scotland's story; written it in blood — their 
i6 



242 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

own or that of their fellows — but written it, let us 
believe, in all good conscience, believing that they 
were doing God service. These were the times when 
in the blood of martyrs was being sown the seed of 
the church; for in all after years the sturdiness of 
the Scotchman's faith and his zeal in things religious 
have been well-nigh a proverb. 

Returning from Greyfriars, we pass on down the 
gentle slope of High street and Canongate toward 
Holyrood Palace. The tall gable roofs and over- 
hanging stories mark this part of the city as belong- 
ing to a past age. N^or would the history of these 
now dark and grimy buildings be without its trag- 
edy. This was once the heart of Edinburgh life — a 
sort of Eifth avenue in its day — about which was 
gathered the best society of the city. Over many 
a squalid door you may yet see the broken coat-of- 
arms which once marked it as the home of noble 
blood. Hither came Robert Burns, the young poet 
of Scotland, fresh from the Ayrshire hills, to be re- 
ceived as the darling of Edinburgh society. And it 
was in one of these homes that "Walter Scott saw the 
Ayrshire poet, having been admitted along with 
other boys who were too young to join the company, 
"in order that they might see this wonder of the 
world." Afterward the boys of Canongate were to 
look upon the passing of this lame boy with more 
wonder than he ever looked upon Bobbie Burns, 
for the Wizard of the E'orth loved to drive along 
this way when fame had come to him. Dr. Johnson 
and his Boswell were received here as guests. And 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 243 

here the merrj club of "Christopher North" and 
his literary co-laborers was wont to meet. 

But that sparkling current of life has passed out 
of the streets of the Old Town, leaving in its chan- 
nel only dregs and stagnant pools. "The Bedouins 
camp within Pharaoh's palace walls, and the old 
warship is given over to the rats." High street and 
Canongate are now the slums of Edinburgh. The 
sluggish current which moves along the street, eddies 
on either side into noxious pools where evil-smelling 
closes offer shelter to the denizens. You turn from 
the pavement into a low timnel, at the farther end 
of which the sunlight is seen struggling feebly with 
the shadows. Pass through, and you are in a sort 
of cramped court paved with cobblestones and shut 
in on all sides by grimy, window-broken walls that al- 
most touch the sky. The close is a kind of ventila- 
tor for surrounding tenements, down which the sun- 
light may find its way for an hour, and where those 
who look out of the windows may see above them 
a patch of God's over-arching blue. As we entered 
one of these closes, a woman stood in a doorway of 
the somber tunnel, her hair unkempt about a disso- 
lute face, a dingy shawl thrown about her shoulders, 
her feet unshod — the embodiment of degradation. 
In the faint sunlight of the close four boys were 
pitching pennies for gain. The lower windows were 
black and broken, stuffed here and there with cast- 
off garments. From some of the upper ones wash 
was exposed to the sun. One of the youngsters, see- 
ing us, offered to point out where the elder Glad- 



244 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

stone and Robert Burns had dwelt for a season in 
this same close — when its fortunes were brighter. 
Thus too often does vice take up where virtue was 
wont to house. 

Passing Canongate Church, where are buried 
Adam Smith and Dugald Stewart and Robert Fer- 
g-usson, you are come at last to Holyrood. All that 
remains of the Abbey is a few crumbling walls. 
Upon the site was built Holyrood Palace. The Pal- 
ace is known chiefly as the home of Mary Stuart, 
though other sovereigns have resided there, and its 
story is as tragic as that of the Queen of Scots. 
Her apartments are preserved here much as they 
were in her day, her bed with its drapery falling to 
pieces from age, her looking-glass, some chairs. 
Here the fair queen held court, and received am- 
bassadors of other powers. Here John Knox with- 
stood her till tears gave place to passionate words. 
In the vestibule to her audience room is the blood- 
stain where her infuriated husband slew Riccio be- 
fore her very eyes, while she protested and threat- 
ened in vain. 

But Holyrood, like so many another royal resi- 
dence, has been deserted of royalty these many 
years, and has been turned into a museum. *^^The 
Palace of Holyrood has been left aside in the growth 
of Edinburgh,'' says Stevenson, ^^and stands gray 
and silent in a workman's quarter and among brew- 
eries and gas works. It is a house of many memo- 
ries. Great people of yore, kings and queens, buf- 
foons and grave ambassadors, played their stately 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 245 

farce for centuries in Holyrood. Wars have been 
plotted, dancing has lasted deep into the night, mur- 
der has been done in its chambers. There Prince 
Charli(:3 held his phantom levees, and in a very gal- 
lant manner represented a fallen dynasty for some 
hours, i^ow, all these things of clay are mingled 
with the dust, the king's crown itself is shown for 
sixpence to the vulgar; but the stone palace has out- 
lived these changes." 

And now finally, to get a last view of the City of 
the Scots, pass down from the Palace by Queen 
Mary's Bath, where tradition says she was wont to 
dip in white wine to preserve her loveliness, climb 
the steep slope that leads up to the High School, 
pass Burns' s Monument sitting upon the hip of Cal- 
ton Hill, clamber up the steps that are cut in the 
side of the crag, and you stand upon the Acropolis 
of this Athens of the E^orth. Its summit is a broken 
park with rare trees scattered over sharply dipping 
sward. An unfinished monument of the battle of 
Waterloo crowns the hill, its columns outlined 
against the sky suggesting the hill of Athens. On 
one side of you is a tall monument to I^elson, more 
like a light-house shaft upon the rocky eminence 
than like a memorial stone. On the other side is a 
dignified monument to Dugald Stewart. E'ear by 
are the Koyal Observatories, old and new. Beneath 
you lies the city. To the extreme left as you face 
the sunset rises Arthur's Seat, with Holyrood sleep- 
ing in its shadow. To the south the Old Town 
spreads its dingy sea of gable roofs. Far across the 



246 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

city before you tlie dark bastions of the Castle are 
printed on the western sky. Directly in front of 
you the broad channel of Princes street divides the 
Old Town from the New, running away to the sun- 
set like an arrowy river. To the northwest the I^ew 
Town stretches over its hills sloping to the Water 
of Leith, and far beyond it the Forth Bridge lifts its 
giant girders above the tree-tops. North of you is 
the seaport of Leith, and away over its forest of 
masts is the misty ocean, on whose chill breath the 
gray fogs ride in. And while you wait, the chiming 
of church bells or the echo of signal gun from 
the Castle wafted across the gulf of air, testify to 
the union still of temporal and spiritual power in 
the City of the Scots. 



CHAPTEE XY 



SCOTCH LANDS AND LETTERS 



Traveling througli Scotland is like turning the 
pages of her literature, so closely are her lands and 
letters woven together. In no other part of the 
world, except perhaps among the English lakes, have 
the wayside names been so embalmed in the pages 
of literature. Scarce a hill or hamlet here but is 
preserved in some imperishable line, and every fur- 
long of the road serves to stir a memory. The lover 
of Scotch literature feels as if he had come into the 
realm of story realized; for here are the very 
^^banks and braes o' bonny Doon," and the waters of 
"sweet Afton" flowing gently among the green 
braes. "Alloway's auld haunted kirk" still stands 
by the roadside down which Tam fled from the 
witches that weird night. You may yet look upon 
the scenes where "Highland Mary" lingered and the 
bonnie braes of Maxwelton where "Annie Laurie" 
gave her promise. The moon still dances on Mo- 
nan's rill; the sun still kindles his beacon on Ben 
Voirlich's head; Ben Ledi's ridge yet rises against 
the sky, and the Brigg of Turk spans the Teith as it 
did that day when "the headmost horseman rode 
alone" across the page of an immortal poem; and the 
island where dwelt the Lady of the Lake is washed 
to-day by waters that flow down from the Highlands. 



248 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

Lovers of story who have followed Rob Roy and 
Jeanie Deans and Meg Merrilies and Bonny Prince 
Charlie through the realms of romance, may foUow 
them again through the streets of Edinburgh and 
among the braes and through the fastnesses of the 
Highlands. 

The mountains and lakes, the hamlets and 
streams, the castles, even the flowers of the wayside, 
have been preserved for all time in the song and 
story of Scotland's writers — no figment of fabled 
names, but the broad land itself steeped in the all- 
preserving element of genius. And who shall do 
for our land what Scott and Burns have done for 
theirs? Who shall spread the magic garment of 
romance over our fair country ? Who shall so touch 
the names of our wayside places, our rivers and 
streams, our hills and hamlets, as to make them 
household words in distant lands and among genera- 
tions yet unborn? Who shall have such compelling 
power of the pen as that men shall journey across 
seas for the sake of these places ? 

As one moves upon the smooth-flowing measures 
of Scott and Burns, it seems as if the names were 
moulded to the metre; till one turns to the map and 
finds there these same names printed under the cold 
meridians, or comes upon them in the highways and 
byways of history. And our land is as rich in musi- 
cal names, the liquid Indian names of mountain and 
stream, as Scotland. Scattered here and there in 
chronicle, or preserved by tradition, are inex- 
haustible materials for romance- — deeds of daring. 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 249 

passionate love^ wild warfare in a wild country, acts 
of virtue and of vice, such as few countries have of- 
fered to the minstrel or the story-teller. But the 
pen which moulds these materials into perma- 
nent literature wdll have to be wielded by one who, 
like Scott and Burns, has been born of the soil and 
who has drunk in from his mother's breast the his- 
tory and tradition of his native land; who loves 
its rocks and rills, its vales and templed hills; who 
knows its people, their virtues and vices, and has a 
deep and abiding sympathy with the folk. Such a 
writer must incarnate the life of our country in its 
varied history, and have the divine gift of express- 
ing that life in its lights and shadows. "When such 
a man shall come to any section he shall touch it 
with "a light that never was on sea or land." Then 
we shall have our Waverley novels, our Lady of the 
Lake, our Cotter's Saturday !Night, our Ode to a 
Mountain Daisy. Then we shall have a literature 
that, whether it come from the IsTorth or the South, 
shall be American, even as the writings of Burns 
and Scott are English literature. As one of our 
own Southern authors has said of the ideal Southern 
writer: ^^He must be Southern and yet cosmopoli- 
tan; he must be intensely local in feeling, but 
utterly unprejudiced and unpartisan as to opinions, 
tradition, and sentiment. Whenever we have a 
genuine Southern literature, it will be American 
and cosmopolitan as well. Only let it be the work 
of genius, and it will take all sections by storm.'' 
Such must be the measure of the man, from any 



250 "WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

section, who would take place in the rank of great 
writers. 

But until he come to make famous the common 
places of our land, we faiQ travel to those places 
that have been more fortunate. So it came about 
that a company of Southerners found themselves in 
the heart of Scotland — come hither to visit the 
scenes they had known so well through the printed 
page. 

It was early morning of an August day when we 
left Edinburgh for the Highlands by way of the 
Caledonian Railroad. Do not think, however, that 
we were going to see the land of "The Lady of the 
Lake" from a car window. The enterprising world 
has not gotten that far, as yet. You may climb the 
Alps by steam. You can rush through the Black 
Forest to the roar of the locomotive. You can view 
the Rhine from a dining-car as you run. But the 
sacred precincts of Loch Katrine have not been 
desecrated by the advent of a railroad — though 
Ruskin lamented that the steamboat had come to 
trail its foul banner of smoke across the romantic 
waters. 

A few minutes' run from Edinburgh brought us 
to the famous Eorth Bridge, which Eiffel, the 
builder of the Paris tower, pronounced to be the 
greatest construction of the world. It spans the 
Firth of Forth ten miles above the city, its total 
length being more than a mile and a half, its two 
main spans each seventeen hundred feet, or a hun- 
dred feet longer than that of Brooklyn Bridge. It 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 251 

was seven years in building, and cost fifteen million 
dollars. Its towers are three hundred and sixty feet 
high, and the metal in it weighs fifty thousand tons. 
So much for the cold facts which in this later day 
have come to bridge the gulf of romance. Eor 
about the stormy Firth legends hang as thick as the 
mists of an autumn morning. Here where the 
bridge now offers easy passage to the tourist was 
once the ferry which Queen Margaret established 
and maintained at expense of the state, that the 
citizens of her realm might have contact with each 
other despite the angry arm which old ocean threw 
between them. Here was the connecting link be- 
tween "the kingdom of Fife'' and the county of 
Perth to the north, and the broad lands to the south. 
This way Malcolm and Margaret were wont to 
pass from their royal house at Dunfermline to the 
Castle of Edinburgh — in the days when the Con- 
queror was fighting the Saxons in the south. And 
across this same ferry the body of the queen was 
borne back in secret from Edinburgh Castle to find 
burial in the Abbey of Dunfermline, when Tier hus- 
band was dead, and the troops of Donald Bane lay 
in siege at the gates of her capital. As the train 
draws across the great bridge, and one looks down 
upon the waters crawling far below, one can but 
think how far the world has moved forward in some 
things since those days. 

Leaving the bridge and passing Dunfermline, we 
came shortly to Stirling with its castle frowning 
down upon it. Few places have witnessed the mak- 



252 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

ing of more history than has this little town of 
twenty thousand souls. The castle has been occu- 
pied by both English and Scottish royalty, in defi- 
ance of each other. Two of Scotland's kings were 
born here — James II aiid James V. It was occu- 
pied by Eobert Bruce after his famous victory at 
Bannockburn a few miles away. The Douglases 
were frequent visitors here in the days of their as- 
cendency. From the Castle rock are visible the 
battlefield of Sauchieburn, Bannockburn, and Stir- 
ling. 

From here we came to Aberf oyle, the terminus of 
the railway, and the beginning of a region more 
romantic than '^the forest of Arden." For this is 
the realm on which the noble stag looked down 

"And pondered refuge from his toil, 
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle." 

It was noon when we reached here, and the clouds 
which had been undecided all the morning, finally 
voted wet. It was a disappointment, for we had 
hoped to have fair skies for our trip through the 
Scotch lakes. But the good traveler, like the good 
sportsman, must learn to make the best of all 
weathers, and be cheerful under all skies. We re- 
called with some comfort the story of the traveler 
who on such an occasion asked the driver, "Does it 
always rain in Scotland ?" and was answered by 
the canny native, "No, sir; sometimes it snow^s.'' 
It might have been worse — which concession lets in 
a ray of light upon the darkest scene. 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 253 

At Aberfoyle there happened an incident which 
gives insight into the sturdy native character. 
Lunch over^ and the rain continuing, we had the 
choice of putting up at the hostelry, getting 
drenched, or buying rain coats — for wraps had been 
shipped to Liverpool. We chose the last, and after 
some trouble found specimens of the desired 
article in a sort of general merchandise store such 
as one sees at the cross-roads. We asked the mer- 
chant if the coats would really turn water — the 
cheapness at which they were offered made us sus- 
picious. E'ow, an American salesman would likely 
have assured a stranger that with such a coat he 
might dive to Davy Jones's locker without danger 
of wetting. E'ot so with this Scotchman. "They 
were made for that j)urpose," he said, "and I think 
they will; but I cannot say positively, as I have 
never tried them." As a matter of fact, they 
proved excellent coats in both Scotch and American 
weather. 

Armed, or rather clothed, with our purchase, we 
mounted the tally-ho, and started across the hills for 
the Trossachs and the lakes beyond. The road-. 
were steep but superb, and our four stout horses 
took us over the ground as fast as we cared to go 
through such scenery. The heather covered hill 
and valley, coming up to the very edge of the way, 
and on the braes the sheep were feeding in purple 
fields. As we proceeded, the clouds broke from 
time to time, letting the light through upon the 
landscape. To the left Ben Venue bathed his fur- 



254 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

rowed brow in the low-hanging clouds^ while his 
flank and foot melted away into purple billows. To 
our right, almost hidden among the hills, the misty 
mirror of Loch Yennachar reflected the lowering 
sky. And beyond the glen, when cloud rifts re- 
vealed it, "rose Ben Ledi's ridge in air." Only too 
often, as the roadway rose and fell with the undu- 
lating hills, we were disappointed of some ex- 
pected view by the lowering clouds. But what was 
not revealed to the eye was made good by the im- 
agination. And indeed we saw almost as much as 
might have been offered on a more favorable day, 
for the Scotch landscape is famous for the intensity 
of its detailed beauty rather than for its far reaches. 
Distances among the hills are short, and a day's 
drive behind a sturdy team will bring you within 
eye's reach of almost every celebrated spot of this 
poetic region. The whole lake country was made 
famous by one day's hunt in the poem; and Scott 
was very careful that his descriptions should tally 
with . fact, often traveling the reputed distance to 
see whether it could be really accomplished. The 
pack and quarry could easily cover in one day's run 
every point from Monan's rill to "the deep Tros- 
sachs' wildest nook." Moreover, a clouded sky is not 
altogether unfavorable to seeing Scotch landscape to 
advantage. The hills even of the Highlands are 
comparatively low, and lowering clouds lend to them 
proportions which they would surely lose under the 
high-pitched vault of an Italian sky. The High- 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 255 

lands would look mean under a heaven in whose airy 
spaces the snow-crowned Alps find ample room. 

So we journeyed into the lake country und 
dampening but not altogether adverse conditions. 
Rolling down the sharp decline of an outlying hill, 
we came to the border of Loch Achray, a tiny lake 
lying like a link between Katrine and Yennachar. 
At the eastern end of this lakelet, spanning the 
stream that drains the loch, is the brigg of Turk, 
over which, according to Sir Walter, the hunter 
urged his faltering steed in pursuit of the straining 
quarry; and near by is the defile of the Trossachs, 
in which the gallant gray breathed his last. From 
Achray to Katrine is a few minutes' drive. Th^ 
scenery, though not so wild as it was in the days of 
Scott, is still wild enough to be romantic. The 
sides of the hills are covered with birch and oak, 
under the branches of which imagination could 
easily picture "the antlered monarch of the waste" 
springing from his heathery couch at the mouthing 
of the pack. 

When we had issued from the wood there lay be- 
fore us a scene which may best be described by a 
master's pen : 

"One burnished sheet of living g-old, 
Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled, 
In all her length far winding lay, 
With promontory, creek and bay, 
And islands that, empurpled bright, 
Floated amid the livelier light. 
And mountains that like giants stand, 
To sentinel enchanted land." 



256 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 

^ot far from the east end of the lake lies Ellen's 
Island, a mossy emerald in a field of broken blue. 
It was from the wooded shore of this island the 
Lady of the Lake set out in her shallop when she 
heard the winding of the horn. And when she saw 
the stranger emerge from the wood where she had 
looked to see her father, 

"The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar, 
Pushed her slight shallop from the shore, 
And when a space was gained between, 
Closer she drew^ her bosom's screen; 
(So forth the startled swan would swing, 
So turn to plume his ruflaed wing.)" 

We now took passage upon the little steamer 
Sir Walter Scott, rounded the enchanted isle, the 
waves from our steamer breaking upon its shore, 
and sailed up Loch Katrine. The famous lake is 
eight winding miles in length, a meager mile in 
width at best, and eighty fathoms in its deepest 
place. Its waters, clear from the Highlands, run to 
the sea by way of Achray, Vennachar, the Teith 
and Forth. And in these late prosaic days some of 
it runs through dark mains to quench the thirst of 
busy Glasgow, nearly forty miles away. As we 
passed up the lake the clouds veiled and revealed 
by turns the mountain tops, sweeping the heaving 
bosom of the water anon with a silver fringe of 
rain. 

An hour brought us to Stronachlachar at the 
farther end of the lake, where we called the coach 
into service again for a five-mile drive to Invers- 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 267 

naid on Locli Lomond. Our route lay along the 
braes above the valley of the Arklet. Cattle were 
pasturing in the meadows among the long lush 
grass. Shepherds turned to watch us while their 
sheep browsed in the heather. Loch Arklet lay 
asleep in its rock-ribbed cradle. Arklet water mur- 
mured among its banks or foamed over scattered 
boulders as it ran to join the waters of Loch 
Lomond, its own waters touched almost to amber 
where it ran through hidden beds of peat. Mid- 
way the pass a besom of rain swept the valley, 
leaving every sprig of heather hung with pearls. 
How fresh the landscape looked when the rain had 
passed, like a child just from its bath with its ring- 
lets dripping. And the denizens of the land seemed 
to take the rain as a matter of course. The cattle 
kept to their grazing and the shepherds to their 
stands. It reminded one of an incident in the 
friendship of Scott and Washington Irving, which 
may best be told in the latter's words: "Two or 
three times in the course of our walk there were 
drizzling showers, which I supposed would put an 
end to our ramble, but my companion trudged on 
as unconcernedly as if it had been fine weather. At 
length I asked whether we had not better seek some 
shelter. True,' said Scott, ^I did not recollect that 
you were not accustomed to our Scottish mists. 
This is a lachrymose climate, evermore showering. 
We, however, are children of the mist, and must 
not mind a little whimpering of the clouds any 
17 



258 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

more than a man must mind tlie weeping of an 
hysterical wife. As you are not accustomed to be 
wet through, as a matter of course, in a morning's 
walk, we will bide a bit under the lee of this bank 
till the shower is over.' " And therewith they 
turned to the thicket, where under the protection of 
a single tartan they bide the passing of the shower. 
So we came to Inversnaid in the wake of the rain, 
dampened in all except spirits — does one dare men- 
tion spirits in Scotland on such a snell day? — at 
least we heard one ruddy-faced native make mys- 
terious mention to his comrade as we stood before 
the hotel. The scenery about Inversnaid is more 
rugged than that on Loch Katrine. Across the 
shimmering lake Ben Voirlich lifts his head into 
the sky. On his broad sides the sunshine and the 
shadows played at hide and seek as the breaking 
clouds scurried before the wind. Kepeatedly his 
brow was veiled with mists, only to have the veil 
torn away by the unseen hands of the Harpies. 
[N'earby is a waterfall where the Arklet leaps over 
a rocky ledge in its haste to join the play below. 

"This fall of water that doth make 
A murmtir near the silent lake," 

as Wordsworth describes it in his tribute ^To a 
Highland Girl at Inversneyde." 

Taking boat at this poetic spot, we passed down 
the lake under the shadow of Ben Lomond, wound 
in and out among the green islands that dot the sur- 
face of the water, and came to Balloch, the southern 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 259 

end of the lake, as the sun was shooting his level 
rays through cloud rifts low down the west. A 
short run brought us to Glasgow as the shades of 
evening settled over moor and highland. 



CHAPTER XVI 



THE ENGLISH LAKES 



One would travel far to find two cities more com- 
pletely up-to-date in all that makes for commercial 
life than Glasgow and Liverpool, the one the door- 
way to Scotland, the other the port of England. 
The tide of business surges into their docks from 
every quarter of the world. Their streets are 
thronged with bustling crowds. Black pennants of 
smoke float across their sky from countless factory 
stacks. Far into the night the noise of traffic roars 
like a mighty current along their thoroughfares. 
They are linked with every country through the 
tentacles of trade. Glasgow is as different from 
Edinburgh as morning is from evening. The one is 
in the full flush of youth, with the day before it. 
The other is touched with the soft afterglow of a 
day far spent, and moves serenely in the conscious- 
ness of deeds already done. Liverpool has the vim 
of London without that dignity which lends balance 
to the life of the latter city. 

The distance between these two cities is just 
that between 'New York and "Washington. But 
there all likeness ends. The two American cities are 
bound together by a country which is in keeping 
with themselves, a region thick set with commercial 
and manufacturing centers, and strewn with the 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 261 

hideous output of an advertising age. The country 
which lies between Glasgow and Liverpool savors so 
little of modern life that it might well be hidden 
away in the retirement of some undisturbed land. It 
is almost as if one dropped suddenly out of the rush 
and roar of to-day into the peace and quiet of the 
ancient Vale of Tempo. For the traveler who 
passes from the Scotch city to the English port 
traverses those sections of either country that are 
most deeply steeped in the legend of classic litera- 
ture. His way leads through Ayrshire, the country 
of the plow-man poet, by the birth place and burial 
place of Thomas Carlyle, and through the English 
lakes. And thanks to the good taste of the people, 
he is not insulted by advertisements of pickles and 
watches and whiskey, thrust upon his sight when he 
would enjoy the beauties of the scenery. 

Our summer travels were happily to end with a 
trip through the most picturesque and classic region 
of English soil. Time forbade a stop in the land of 
Robert Burns. But surely no one except a con- 
firmed globe-trotter would wish to exhaust the 
world in a single summer. Why, we always liked 
to leave about the old homestead some nook or dell 
unexplored, as a possible asylum in case the world 
became insufferably commonplace. So, in this case, 
we made a virtue of necessity, and rejoiced to think 
that if we should ever come this way again there 
would be some novelties left to sharpen the edge of 
interest. And Ayrshire remains to us a virgin land. 

Having bought our last Scotch souvenirs, we 



262 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

boarded a southern train in the late morning, and 
started for Wordsworth's land. The iron way has 
tapped many a place whose name is preserved in the 
amber of English letters. There is Mauchline, 
where Burns met ^'Highland Mary." And near by 
are 

"Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
The castle o' Montgomery." 

The echo of the locomotive reaches down into the 
quiet valley where flows the bonnie Doon. The 
railway passes along the valley of the Mth, on the 
banks of which Burns spent three years pretending 
to farm — 

"To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, 
Though press'd wi' care and sunk in woe, 
To thee I bring a heart unchanged." 

On this river is Dumfries, where the poet spent the 
last saddening years of his storm-tossed life, and 
where he lies buried. Across the valley of Annan is 
Ecclefechan, where sleeps the great Scotchman, 
Carlyle. 

Beside the border we passed Gretna Green, pro- 
verbial for its runaway marriages. From there to 
Keswick by way of Carlisle and Penrith was a mat- 
ter of an hour or more, and we were in the famous 
region of the English lakes. Kesmck is associated 
with some of the most brilliant names in English 
letters. Here upon the banks of the Greta as it 
flows to join the Derwentwater is the house made 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 263 

famous by Coleridge and Southey. It was the 
home of the latter poet for thirty-five of his most 
productive years; and across its threshold that 
other poet-philosopher went in and out for many 
years. The following words from the pen of Cole- 
ridge may best serve to give a picture of the view: 
"In front we have a giant camp — an encamped 
army of tent-like mountains which, by an inverted 
arch, gives a view of another vale. On our right 
the lovely vale and the wedge-shaped lake of Bas- 
senthwaite; and on our left Derwentwater and 
Lodore full in view; and the fantastic mountains of 
Borrowdale. Behind is the massy Skiddaw, smooth, 
green, high, with two chasms and a tent-like ridge 
in the larger." 

Over these hills and by these waters the poets 
wandered side by side or each alone with his medi- 
tations. The names of Derwentwater and Skiddaw 
claim a place in English song, and what school-boy 
does not remember "how the water comes down at 
Lodore"? One can picture the hearty form of 
Southey against this background as he swung along 
the winding pathway at his "four-mile gait," taking 
his daily constitutional. To this shrine of letters 
came visitors from every corner of the English- 
speaking world. Among them that fiery young 
spirit Shelley, shooting athwart the calm sky of 
Keswick like a meteor from Mars; and the "Opium 
Eater," dreaming away his days under the fatal 
spell of the poppy plant, but kind and tender and 
deep in the springs of his affection. Thither, too. 



264 WITH THE TOIJEIST TIDE 

came that other child of the muses, Wordsworth, 
trudging all the way from Grasmere "on his inde- 
fatigable legs," to pull the latchstring of Greta 
Hall, and spend a day in congenial company. What 
a fine picture it must have made, the stalwart form 
striding along the road of unbroken snow while the 
great hills looked silently on from under their 
ermine mantles. 

The scenery of the Lake district is not sublime, 
when compared with that of Switzerland. The 
mountains are not great in height, Helvellyn, the 
highest, being little more than three thousand feet; 
nor are they rugged. They stoop with rounded 
shoulders under the weight of geologic ages; but 
their very age lends charm, for it has modified their 
angles into pleasant curves and made their flanks 
melt down gracefully to meet the vales. What the 
hills have lost from their summits has been piled 
at their feet in the slopes of verdant leas. And 
from their laps the lakes reflect in softened lines 
the faces of the hills. "These lakes and mountains 
give me a deep joy for which I suspect nothing else 
can compensate,'' said Southey, "and this is a feel- 
ing which time strengthens instead of weakening.'' 

The changing sky lends variety to the landscape, 
as the clouds rise from beyond the mountains and 
set sail across the gulf of air, or "sunbeam-proof, 
hang like a roof, the mountains their columns be." 
"Such clouds," said Wordsworth, "cleaving to their 
stations, or lifting up suddenly their heads from 
behind rocky barriers, or hurrying out of sight with 



WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 265 

speed of the sharpest edge^ will often tempt an in- 
habitant to congratulate himself on belonging to a 
country of mists and clouds and storms, and make 
him think of the blank sky of Egypt, and the ceru- 
lean sky of Italy, as an unanimated and even a sad 
spectacle." 

The road from Keswick to Grasmere runs 
through the heart of this picturesque region. After 
winding among the heather-covered hills for three 
miles, you turn the summit of the modest pass, 
a low saddle in the hills. Before you lies a 
long basin shut in all sides by serrate mountains, and 
in its lap the beautiful Thirlmere Lake, three miles 
long and as many furlongs across, its mirror surface 
reflecting the peak of Helvellyn. Stone fences 
hedge the road on either side, and sheep find pasture 
on the slopes. It is a land of wild pastures, where 
the soil is rarely disturbed by the plow. In one of 
the meadows an old man and a young woman were 
gathering a little harvest of hay, but no tillage was 
visible anywhere. The road winds slowly down the 
slopes toward the lake, and where it touches the 
shore you come upon ISTagshead Inn, a roadside 
hostelry which owes whatever of fame it boasts to 
the passing of a poetic soul. Across the road is the 
tiny church where Wordsworth turned in to wor- 
ship on occasion — though most of his worship was 
under the open sky. The lake furnishes water for 
the city of Manchester, ninety-six miles away. 

Skirting Thirlmere Lake its entire length, and 
ascending the gentle slope of Dunmail Eaise, you 



266 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

come -upon another panorama, even wider and more 
celebrated. To the east rises Rydal Fell, and be- 
yond it Kirkstone Pass. To the south Coniston Old 
Man towers above the heads of the nearer peaks. 
To the west are the Cringle Crags and Langdale 
Pikes. Before you the little village of Grasmere 
nestles among its trees by the lake of like name. 
And just beyond are Rydal Mount and Rydal 
Water. As we passed down into this scenery the 
mountain shadows were creeping out across the 
valleys. A flock of truant sheep leaped over the 
low wall of their pasture one after another, and 
scurried away down the valley, pursued by a collie. 
A tally-ho party of tourists passed us, on the way 
to Keswick. Far down the road ahead of us a 
single carriage held its easy way. Peace brooded 
like a gentle spirit over the scene as the day drew 
on to its close. 

Here no sound of the iron horse disturbs the 
quiet. Time has eddied among these hills, and in 
this retreat the past yet lives. The coach makes its 
trip to-day as it did when Wordsworth first jour- 
neyed thither more than a century ago, and draws 
up before the wayside hostelry with winding of the 
horn. The course of life moves on among the 
people here without apparent innovation, and one 
is half inclined to think they must stand with open- 
mouthed astonishment when the blaring automobile 
disturbs their happy solitude. The houses are sub- 
dued of color, and wear their age without decay. 
The harmony of the scene is unbroken. 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 267 

]^or is there need of railway to bring this retired 
nook within the world's acquaintanceship. It sits 
serenely among its harboring mountains while we 
come to it according to its own archaic ways^ — and 
rejoice to come that way. For if there is one spot 
above all others where the traveler needs to linger^ 
it is the Lake Country — no place here for the hust- 
ling locomotive. On every hill you need to pause, 
and in every dale. It is as if one walked through 
the rooms of a great house whose every ornament 
and feature were associated with famous inmates. 
So one must approach the Lake Country, for this 
whole region was the home of a group of men whose 
names went out from here to all the world. Here 
they lived, Wordsworth and Southey and Cole- 
ridge — lived among these hills and valleys and by 
these lakes. For half a century Wordsworth walked 
here, "and there is not in all that region a hillside 
walk or winding valley which has not heard him 
murmuring out his verses as they slowly rose from 
his heart." Nor is there a peak nor stream nor 
waterfall nor pool nor sloping sod in all that scene 
which has not been commemorated in the poet's 
verse. Perhaps there is not another region in all 
the world so completely identified with the life of a 
single man as this section is with Wordsworth. And 
when his life was done, they fittingly laid him to 
rest by the bank of the Rotha amid the scenes he 
had loved and celebrated. 

What must it have meant to spend half a century 
of fertile life amid the same scenes, to see the sun 



268 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

rise over the same hills year by year^ to watch the 
clouds of succeeding seasons drift over the same 
crags, to hear the varied voice of the same brooks 
as they murmured through mossy banks or laughed 
in the boisterous revelry of summer torrent. He 
was born not far from here, in Cumberland by the 
sea. And with the exception of the years at Cam- 
bridge and short sojourns in London and on the 
Continent, his whole life was spent here in an area 
not larger than a county. He drank at the springs 
of learning when life was young. He tasted the 
life of a great city. He traveled in other lands for 
a season. And when the years of his apprentice- 
ship were ended — the fruitful wander-years — he 
came back to the quiet country-side of his birth, and 
gave to it the gathered riches of a long life, so inter- 
preting its beauties that these once unknown hills 
and valleys have become known to all the world. A 
splendid example to the youth of our own time who 
would seek fame in a great metropolis. 

Nor is it only these poets whose names are linked 
with the English lakes. Thomas Arnold, the 
famous head-master of Rugby, made his home here 
for a season, as did Harriet Martineau. In the 
churchyard at Grasmere, hard by the grave of 
Wordsworth, is the resting-place of Hartley Cole- 
ridge, son of a greater father. E'ear it is a memor- 
ial to Arthur Hugh Clough, placed at the foot of 
his mother's grave — for he lies in the cemetery at 
Florence — with these words, "This remembrance in 
his own country is placed on his mother's grave by 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 269 

those to whom life was made happy by his presence 
and his love." And over at Brantwood, in the 
shadow of Coniston Old Man, John Rnskin waited 
through the lingering twilight of his life and there 
lies at rest. Walter Scott and DeQnincey enriched 
the traditions of the place by their presence. 

So here among these hills and by these lakes you 
may turn page after page of English letters as you 
linger on from Grasmere down past N^ab Scar and 
Rydal Mount and Rydal Water and Ambleside to 
Windermere, where the railroad reaches out its arms 
to take you back again into the rush and hurly- 
burly of to-day. 



CHAPTEE XVII 

WESTWARD HO ! 

What a long trail that was upon which we looked 
back from the steamer's deck at Liverpool — the 
winding way through city and country, along lake 
and stream, by burning mountain and frozen river, 
by verdant valley and snowy mountain-top. It 
was two months since we had taken up that trail at 
Naples. And what a wealth of experience had been 
crowded into those months. But now the journey 
lay in its full length behind us, the hardships of the 
way softened by the mellow light of memory — and 
our faces were set toward home. But between the 
Old and the jN'ew World there is a world peculiar to 
itself — the kingdom of Neptune. And its every 
phase is full of interest. 

Have you ever watched an ocean liner put out to 
sea? It is always an event at the docks. No mat- 
ter how many ships may come and go in the harbor, 
when the ocean greyhound slips her leash and 
turns her nose toward the deep, crowds throng the 
piers, even the stolid stevedore stops to wave a fare- 
well to the goodly ship, and the little craft salute 
her ton voyage as she passes down among them on 
her way to distant shores. There is such grace and 
majesty about the movement of a great liner and 
such suggestion of power, that she has a compelling 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 271 

influence, and men who have been accustomed all 
their lives to the come and go of vessels will stop to 
watch her pass. 

It is not strange, therefore, that when we reached 
the dock the pier was black with people. There 
must have been a thousand spectators present, 
besides the passengers. When the steamer had 
taken her berth, the gangways were placed. Then 
for two hours there was a busy scene, as the passen- 
gers came aboard and the stevedores brought the 
luggage on. The cabin passengers all had to run 
the gauntlet of the health officer, who reserved the 
privilege of examining teeth, turning down eyelids, 
or inspecting scalps. This over, we had the right of 
way to our staterooms, and began to make ourselves 
at home for the voyage. When all was ready, the 
gong sounded along corridor and deck to warn visi- 
tors — for there are no way-stations on this trip 
where unwilling passengers may alight. Last fare- 
wells were given by those whom the ocean would 
soon divide^ the gangways were removed, and the 
hawsers loosened. Then amid much blowing of 
whistle two tugs picked up huge hawsers that hung 
from stern and prow, and began pulling at them 
like fices. The hull of the Oceanic inched away 
from the pier, and we had left the shores of the 
Old World. 

A fog settled over the harbor as we passed out, 
cutting off the distant view, and the supper gong 
called us below. Every place was filled that 
jiight — for the only time. 'Next morning found us 



272 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

in the outer harbor of Queenstown, where we were 
to take on more passengers and some hundred tons 
of mail — all brought out to us on lighters. Though 
we stood some two miles from land, an Irish woman 
and her son came out to us in boats, and drove a 
brisk trade in silks, linens, and shawls while we 
waited. She was a true daughter of Erin, and kept 
the crowd in a roar with sallies of native wit. At 
noon we weighed anchor, and steered for the open 
sea, followed by a cloud of white gulls. In a few 
hours Ts^e had passed Fastnet Kock, the last land of 
the Old World, and from its lighthouse the message 
had slipped under the ocean to 'New York that we 
were on the high seas. 

But we were not done with the Old World, for all 
we were over the horizon rim. That night notice 
was given out that communication had been estab- 
lished with Crookhaven. ^tsTow Crookhaven was 
hundreds of miles away on the coast of Ireland, and 
hourly slipping down the circle of the earth behind 
us as the knots slipped under our keel. Yet we sat 
ther« on board our ship and talked to friends in 
Europe with perfect ease, while the boisterous ocean 
surged between. We had heard of talking at ran- 
dom^ but the Marconigram more nearly approaches 
that than anything we had ever seen. The only 
visible appointment is a double wire running from 
one mast-head to the other with two wires running 
from it to the operator's room. There he sits and 
ticks away, sending his message apparently to 
wander on the wings of the fickle wind. Yet it 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 273 

goes unerring to its destination. When we had 
come over toward the Grand Banks, ISTew Found- 
land was "picked up," and we began to talk with 
America. What qualms Marconi might have saved 
Columbus if he had only been born in time. 

Our passage was a rough one, but pleasant withal. 
There were recreations to suit the taste. If you 
liked reading, there was a select library, represent- 
ing the best American and English literature. If 
you preferred "My Lady E'icotine," there was the 
smoker where you might watch the curhng wreaths 
to your heart's content, and besides have anything 
you wanted from the cellars of Bacchus. There 
were cards and checkers and chess and dominoes 
with which to while away the hours. If you loved 
music, there was a fine piano in the dining saloon — 
and the band played every evening. If you wanted 
to exercise your muscle, there were half a dozen 
deck games at your service. And then there were 
^ve meals a day, all told, at which you could kill a 
fair portion of ennui. Taken altogether, life on a 
liner is tolerable enough — if you are not seasick. 

Much depends upon the personnel of the com- 
pany, for on shipboard you either have to stay "in 
your room, or mingle with the crowd. In that re- 
spect we were fortunate enough. The world's Bap- 
tist convention at London had called a goodly num- 
ber of that faith across the waters, and some of 
them had shipped with us for return voyage. There 
were enough D. D.'s aboard to stock a seminary. 
i8 



274 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

But you would never have guessed it. They were 
"jolly good fellows" of the finest sort. There were 
those who could sing college songs with a gusto that 
scarcely comported with gray locks, and could tell a 
story with a zest that made it fairly glow. There 
was a Methodist missionary returning home on vaca- 
tion from ten years' service at Lucknow, having 
braved the perils of fanaticism and the terrors of 
the plague, a sturdy man who had lived long enough 
to be tolerant of the slow stepping of true progress. 
There was a sugar merchant going from Port Said 
to his home in Honolulu. And there were ladies 
who had seen the wide, wide world. Indeed, there 
are few portions of the charted globe that might 
not have been described by some one of that com- 
pany as eye-witness. Thrown with such a crowd in 
the easy companionship of steamer life, one could 
not find the voyage monotonous. You touched the 
whole world through your fellow-passengers. 

And when conversation lagged, it was glorious to 
curl up in a deck-chair, tuck yourself snugly into 
wraps, and spend an hour with some romancer or 
story-teller, while the old ship plowed the waves. 
It^was so we met Hall Caine's "Prodigal Son." It 
was so we wandered with Bret Harte's "Outcasts of 
Poker Plat" and met once more "The Luck of Bear- 
ing Camp." Even the jokes of Artemus "Ward lost 
some of their staleness when dashed with the salt 
spray. There is no place like a steamer's deck for 
getting close to the heart of a book. Nothing calls 
you from the reading, and there is just enough 



WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 275 

noise to banish the oppressiveness of silence. There 
is always breeze enough and to spare, but if you get 
close up under the lee of the canvas wind-shield, 
you may laugh at the antics of Aeolus and his tribe. 
Whoever enjoys sitting on the sunny side of a hill 
when the winter wind is blowing out of the north 
will delight to sit on the lee side of a steamer deck 
in mid-ocean when ISTeptune is roused. 

And we needed to seek the lee on our homeward 
voyage. Our outward voyage had been far down 
toward the tropics where summer breezes blow. 
But now we were up by Labrador under the breath 
of Boreas. Winter wraps were scarcely enough to 
ward off the cold, and the decks were often wet with 
rain or fog. Though we were on the highway of 
the seas, we hailed few ships, on account of the 
thick weather. One day in mid-ocean we sighted 
a tiny craft which in the distance looked hardly 
bigger than a butterfly. It proved to be an Amer- 
ican yacht returning from the race for the Kaiser's 
cup. We veered from our course to ask if we could 
serve her. She answered that all was well, and that 
we might so report her at home. 

Off the Banks of 'New Foundland we ran into a 
full-grown hurricane, which held us in its clutches 
six hours. The weather had been murky and 
squally all day, with the sun now and then faintly 
visible through thick clouds. Gusts of rain swept 
the deck without warning, and the fog rose and fell 
by turns on the face of the waters. It grew so dark 
at times that the ship had to blow her minute horn. 



276 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 

Ahead the sky got more ominous as the afternoon 
waned, and at four o'clock the storm struck us. 
The rain came in sheets, horizontal, till you could 
scarce see a cable's length. The good ship rolled 
and pitched so that even the sailors had to cling to 
the rails. Deck-chairs careered like frightened 
creatures as the vessel rolled from side to side. 
You could feel the ship rise and sink as she re- 
sponded to the ocean swell, and it was like the swift 
rise and fall of an elevator. Some of the more 
hysterical passengers thought it was all up with us, 
and had to have the services of the doctor. A fair 
number of the less nervous ones remained above 
decks to watch the storm. It was an awful sight. 
The huge hull would careen under the impact of the 
wind until the deck was almost under water, and 
then right itself, only to repeat the performance. 
Keeping your feet was out of the question unless 
you had hold of something stable. The storm 
tossed at will that great vessel, which weighed sev- 
enteen thousand tons and measured seven hundred 
feet over all. At supper the dishes had to be 
anchored to the table — but supper went begging 
that night. We had planned to give a concert for 
the benefit of sailors' orphans and widows, but it did 
not come off at the scheduled time. One of the 
ladies suggested that praying would doubtless be 
more in place. 

Mght descended while. the storm raged, and we 
turned in to be rocked in the cradle of the deep. 
l^ext morning all trace of the storm was gone. We 



WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 277 

had run through to fair weather, and every hour 
brought us nearer home. Only those who have 
been away from home and country know what it 
means to stand upon the prow as the vessel pushes 
her nose through the waves, and watch for first 
sight of the far-off shore. 'No outlook at the mast- 
head of Columbus's caravel could have strained his 
eyes more eagerly than we did for sight of that 
shore. We watched the sun on the last day as he 
dropped behind a cloud bank of the horizon, and 
knew that he should set next for us behind our own 
loved mountain-tops. Then we gave the postponed 
concert, and at its close sang "My country, 'tis of 
thee." 

l^ext morning at daybreak we passed in by Sandy 
Hook, and in due time came to rest in the outer 
harbor. That morning the sun was to go into 
eclipse. But the curtain did not rise upon the 
august scene — not for us. It only seemed as if 
twilight had been prolonged beyond its time. The 
scene was memorable, nevertheless. Our ship lay 
at rest on the waters. A veil of reeky mist hung 
over the harbor, and a leaden pall formed a low- 
hung sky. Through the gloom vessels could be seen 
stealing like spectres athwart our bows and stern; 
and out of the obscurity came that multitudinous 
noise of the harbor. The pilot boat came alongside, 
bringing us letters from home and news of the end- 
ing of war between Japan and Russia — for the very 
day before peace had been concluded by the envoys 



278 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 

at Portsmouth, and we read the ^^extras'^ proclaim- 
ing it. 

So, after many days we were home again. Some 
one has said that the most pleasant part of travel is 
the home-coming. And he was not far from the 
truth. It is splendid to travel afar and to gather 
the riches of other lands. But it is even a finer 
thing to have a home and country to which one can 
come back with joyful heart. Pity the man who, 
when vacation is ended, does not come back to his 
work with new purpose. Pity the man who, when 
his season of travel is over, does not come back 
eager to take up the serious labors of life. 



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